Well the stars still have not fallen from sky and nine years ago today, I lost you.
I am luckier than anyone imagines.
* * *
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the run-away sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
"You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged,
Missing me one place, search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you."
~ From: "Leaves of Grass", Song of Myself, Walt Whitman
