At the edge

Stacks lay in wait
heaping brick-a-brack of yesterdays memories,
sifters will come at night
searching for keepsakes to sell
or prop in empty rooms
with no heed for the meaning
for why it sits waiting for the morning
when what is left behind
will move on rubber down the road
to the empty hole
where excess things that cause pain
will be covered over.
Perhaps in time a tree will grow,
bearing fruit supplied with nutrients
of useless things
and much-loved wood and paper,
glass and things once needed
no longer of use
for she is gone
and the empty rooms bear witness
to the changes taking place
and somewhere there may be a piece left,
something to hold and remember
I can only hope
so as tomorrow comes and the sweet perfume lingers,
the ghost of yesterday will still hang heavy
waiting for the goodbye,
and you will remember once more
the light of a smile that lit the fire
in tender gardens where rosemary grows
and sage blooms light lavender petals
in memory of a light now extinguished
yet is never really gone.
Tomorrow will come
and the empty seat will become nothing,
into the earth once more
and the sun will still shine down
on empty places
where nothing remains
on the edge of the street
where she once lingered.