The branch, when I
pry it up out of the ice
on the patio because
I mean to let it dry and
set it on fire for its
negligible quantum of heat,
leaves a foliate negative
that melts and fades,
the only image of itself
it will have ever surrendered,
like leaf prints
on a sidewalk or
indecipherable graffiti on
the previously never-noticed walls.
Absence, being infinite, is
what sticks, what enthralls.
The sun itself
will have to count on
the memory of
surviving stars when
approximately eight billion years
from approximately now
it has its last day
and falls into the always
night, those sister stars
who knew their little brother
when he was obnoxiously
hot, unmercifully bright.
Memory is what we have
until memory fades away.
