What is lovely has left us:
No harbinger, no dove’s entrails,
no smoke sign at dawn.
What is lovely has left us,
silent, sightless, slipped away
quick and tender-footed.
We count them, nameless,
golden stones on an abacus,
tallying what has gone.
Photo by Jose Llamas on Unsplash.
Abigail E. Sims 