your footprints on the plate
dried up and withered in place
as if awaiting a day
to flutter away
in the wind that
rustles
in dry
leaves

(is not life so like
the dust and debris;
can you seal it in epoxy
to preserve it for all time?
<lo! the winter froze it>

but like the leaves
the pieces gathered
dampened
waiting to be scattered)

your memory is not just
material to me
you are a wind
you are the sea.