Winnowing

That smear could be sandstone
or beach-straddled sky. A cupola

heavy with verdigris. So many smiles
tucked into dust-covered boxes.

I reshuffle history no longer mine;
grief-honeyed, especially when blurry.

Castles and desert, windswept
fens, all that stained glass

you captured pane by precious pane—
I cast it all off easily, without remorse.

But then comes the unexpected
find: your weathered baseball cap

or your face lit by a foreign sun,
and my cultivated calm dissolves

like salt.

Why did you never tell me
what to keep?