Say this is the last beautiful day

              we’ll ever witness, time caught

                           green in the leaves, swinging. Like music


memory lingers, half-heard wind

              chimes at the edge

                                        of hearing—


                           Say the workers lay down their drills.

              Say construction here has finished.


Say you left not long ago


                           on your bike for groceries.

              How many years ago

was it? Say we didn’t talk.


              Say we did.

Say I walked out of the room

              for a moment—only

                           a moment.


              Say anybody can feel sorrow

approach, but no one can know it


until the moment of witness.

              Say the end

                           is not always


              an act lodged in the past.

                           Say, quite simply, I miss

              the sounds you loved: summer


                                        cicadas. Say thunder. Say grief.

                           Say this strange, hard-earned



Morgan Hamill is a graduate fellow at Penn State-University Park. Her poems appear in Cimarron Review, Copper Nickel, the Georgia Review, the Southern Review, and elsewhere.