(On the death of a professor)
You are the weather of a foreign country I have never visited
so separate from my skin I would not know your face in a crowd.
But when the echoes of your voice carried along the sound waves of the years
reach the rock my heart has become
forced to bounce back from where they came
some fragment is left behind
a seed complete in its truth
its minuteness no obstacle to its authenticity
with only what is left of time and mortality
as limitations.