I have attended far too many 
Easter services to know better
than to look for the living 
among the dead,
but here I am again.

I know I won't find you here, not really.
Still, I can't help but find comfort
in the last place I saw you in this world.

I walk the outline of the scar
not yet healed by the Earth,
the one that somehow separates 
your world from mine and lament
the idea that this is the closest I can
now be to you.

But closeness is not measured
by the miles between 
a man and his fellows,
Thoreau taught me that.
If I can't find you here,
I must look for you in other places.

So, I'll find you in summer's geraniums
and autumn's mums.
In the ring of piano keys
and the creak of the old porch swing.
I'll find you in the sun's reflection
in the water and my own in the mirror.
In the cricket conversations that
refuse to let the night be silent
and in the star that shines the brightest
when those night skies are clear.

I'll find you in the colors that melt together
inside your glass paperweights and in the
colors that melt together
in every sunrise and sunset.

And I'll know that in
all of these moments where I am, 
I'll find you too.