What do they wear, I wonder, in the afterworld?

The speckled leaf
is yellow in the sun;
a few more nights
turn its dress
to chamois.


I wear my sorrow
like a robe— how soft
the years have made it;
how well it knows
my contours.


When you left I kept a silk
cord tied around my wrist.
I like to think my thoughts
still float, balloon-like,
to where you are.


In response to Via Negativa: Foliage.

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