A Separate Life

You're not here,
not in the sky
nor ground nor water,
not even the fire.
So what do I do?
I hold the cat instead of you.
I hold this black ball of a cat,
which, at the moment, doesn't
particularly want to be held.
There's something in this cat
that reminds me of you--
not in its heat nor gaze nor touch,
soft as that might be,
but more its manner
of living a separate life
next to the one that I have
here.

You're not here
though the river is
and the tree
and the fly that drinks
across my wrist
and the stone that shapes the water
that shapes the stone.
And the ashes that relinquish their DNA
have spoken in their small, small voices
that you're not here.

The shadow is a significant other
as is the frozen breath
as is the wind
beneath the door to our bedroom
because, even as weak clues
to the spirit, they are here
and you're not.