What’s Left

When my keen fury fades
and time has blurred these eyes,
after your grief subsides
and tactile memory goes,
can you recapture me?
Each year in a private hour
visit the rock-edged sea
where winds across the shore
blow as they used to blow
and in the rhythmic swell
you hear old poems. Now
see what you can recall
from our brief years that still
beat like a wave-struck bell.