The Form Left Behind

The Form Left Behind

One does not leave the sea free from sand,
Nor Nature without dirt beneath fingernails.
Cuts leave us with scars long after the cause is forgotten,
And love guarantees its own grieving absence.
The tree sheds its leaves which grow dank with rot,
And favorite places are toppled to make way for meaningless spots.
We outgrow friends, and clothes, and ideas
And each day is crushed beneath the falling sun to make way for the night. Yet in all of this change, there is a form left behind.

For no Thing that has been, departs without trace.
Not the sea once out of sight,
Not the earth once inside,
Not the imprint of a favorite place upon our minds,
Nor the unforgettable presence which love demands.

We often fear that a Thing left behind is indistinguishable from a Thing which never was.
But it is the form left behind,
Like the skin of the snake,
Or the cocoon of the caterpillar,
That reminds us that no point is separate from another.
No Thing can exist without that from which it came.
And while a form must be left behind,
It is only as proof,
That some Thing more has gone on.