What Is Left

What is here. What will be gone
As well. But not what was once,
Not what might have been. That’s not.

This is the case at all times—
Long before placed in these lines,
Long after these lines drift ash,

And at all times in between,
Including this moment when
You, if anyone, find us.

The poignancy of poets
Of Arabia, Dream Time,
Tang, Saxons, the Yucatan,

Of any traditions left
Or rediscovered after
Centuries buried in ash,

May well up within you,
Since you realize they ask,
Asked way back when, always were

Asking, fierce variations
On that question: What is left?
And their answers, their details,

Their mourning and tallying,
Were always different, but
Ended up here, all the same.