I never was seen and yet I never feltmy absence enough to pity its passing –
It went along until I had vanished
as one pulse overtakes another,
unnoticed, unremarked, and unremarkable.
Some regard what never was
as a missed opportunity, but not I –
seventy or eighty or so spins (if lucky)
around the sun and hemmed at each end
by nothingness is not the stuff of regret:
I’ve taken that fodder from other stores
that left their mark – no need to mention what –
words echo silence for if an unheard word
is spoken is that not silence itself
refusing to be and yet still being?
A man like a tree ghosts his own absence,
his fruit falls on fallow ground,
his branches lose their leaves,
and yet he lives on from season to season,
thriving into silence, anonymity, presence.