the day after the party,
when everyone is gone,
I try to hear the voices
left behind trapped in the wood,
pretend to see graceful forms
yet move about the grass

the breeze is cooler,
the sun more wane

will yesterday
ever come again?

odd how aroma lingers
while sights and sounds
and the touch of hands

I inhale deeply to savor
this real relic of what was,
and decide to forego exhalation

Chagall 2020