The Smallest Things

Maybe we're made from the smallest things: a loose white button that swallows wing,
A match struck once in the fading blue,
Smoke finds the places we never knew.
Time won't ask to be explained; some things go and some remain.
I stacked the papers in a heavy pile,
Tracing the edges of a faded smile.
Summer light fading from the room,
I sweep the floor with a well-worn broom.
I pack the boxes till the room is bare and leave the memories of an old life there.
Maybe we're made from the smallest things: a loose white button that swallows wing,
A match struck once in the fading blue,
Smoke finds the places we never knew.
Time won't ask to be explained; some things go and some remain.