The Final Word

The words are all walking away from me.

I am sitting outside leaning back in a rickety yard chair,
watching the sky go from blanched,
to turquoise
to velvet.

Some of the words leave in little groups,
like tired hikers
returning to their tents, in the near-darkness.
Some go in pairs, holding hands,
lovers, perhaps,
or just good, good, old, old friends.

Some walk away alone.

The most faithful words
are the last to go:
“brother”
“rain”
“horses”.

I had thought that, perhaps,
the final word to leave me
would be “love”.

But I was wrong.

I sit here,
looking up at those bright little sky punctures,
whose proper names have left me long ago.

Perhaps it is only because I am prompted
by its face,
gazing down at me,
in that luminous, deep blue way
that babies stare at you,
but the final word to step away
is not “love”
but “moon”,
which is really nearly enough the same thing.