I have often had a glimpse of you
watching the swallows flying south
listening to Bach or Bob Dylan
with the rain drumming on the roof
I have heard your voice in an autumn gale
and in the soft fall of early snow
but then I think
it’s only a foolish illusion
your ashes sank in the river
with all the detritus of death
you have become nothing
vacancy, vacuum, inertia, emptiness, absence
but the swallows still journey south