The Elephant
So it is we think,
Mistakenly, that
What is not there
Is absent, but
That is just not so.
Be it echo or ghost,
Be it joy or hurt.
The absent is always.
It looms large in
Its nothingness,
In its wastes,
Its goneness.
What is forgotten
We remember.
Or not. There it is.
So, too, a love lost
Aches in the heart.
What can be no longer
Viewed or touched
Is still seen, felt. It is
There. Here always.
Forever.
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He was formerly a librarian at Montana State University.
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