Driftwood And Other Precious Things Poem by Christine Austin Cole

There among the things that you
once held in your hands
-those indescribably uncommon
and forever unforgettable
hands of yours -
lives the weathered and water-shaped
piece of dead wood
that I picked up
the first time I returned
to Roxbury Falls
without you.

Behind it, the book
filled with unbearably aged,
yellow pages that I have turned
more times than I could count -
its cover with unfortunate tears,
the binding letting go;
as recognizable a thing to me
as my own image
and as altered by time
as I have been
without you.

Beside those, the horse
of pure white, perfect bone china,
its thunderbolts now reigned
and barely audible,
stands guard, still, over memories
too special to name;
the small chip of one gold-tipped wing
a marker, perhaps,
of battles fought
in the years
without you.

… and on the bookshelves
below and alongside,
rest a myriad of improbable words
and meaningful things
that have, too, been known
to move me
to my core

but not one
ever
so completely
or so deeply
as you.