You slip while reaching and fall
out of the world while we are still
in it. This fact hovers before us
in the lazy burnish of August.
We see it pass and grope for it,
but it eludes our fingers. A click
of the mouse brings you back,
smiling beside our own smiling.
We look flushed with the future,
sure of it. It bursts from our letters,
lines crooked with the rush
of good intentions. We run
our fingers through them.
They slip with the quiet shush
of seeds. Now we pocket them,
carrying you in our seams.
We were expecting bigger
things, other things;
You remind us that
the things are right here.
by Devon Balwit
Editor’s Note: This poem’s grief is delicately presented through the images of daily living in our modern world, and emphasizes how none of our technology can assuage the loss.