Goodbyes
 
 
 

The wave of your hand falls
dry at my feet.

As the worn day crumples
on clothing to the floor
your last look sways
to a song of pauses, sways
and drowns in the gray
glass of the window.

From my innermost place,
I watch the summer grow old with me.
 
 
 
 

words © 2000 Brock Bowman
image © 2000 Jon Reischl