The grass is quieter here,
as if even the wind
bows gently for what is to come.

I stand at the edge
and see no stone,
no name,
only a place
where one day I will disappear.

No fear,
only a strange kind of peace,
like a room
where the light has gone out
but the warmth still lingers.

What remains of me
are not words,
but moments
that others might carry
without knowing who they came from.

I look,
not with sorrow,
but with wonder
at how small it is-
and how much it still means.