In The Quiet

Sometimes, when it’s dark
and the stars
make pinprick lights
in the blanket
of the black sky,

I can feel you close
in the quiet.

The smell of roses
lingers in my nostrils
now and then,

like the ones growing
around the stone
that marks your place,

where wild strawberries
push through
the manicured grass.

You remain —
though you left
long ago.

In an almost merciful way,
the stars
remember.