Shush of Corn Broom

It’s hard to find someone,
Only to realize
You’ve already lost them—

It’s not so bad with those
Who died young long ago.
You might wistfully wish

They’d left more to read,
But they left what they left.
It’s that one that you find

That only just died young,
That you find that you like,
That hurts, somehow. That hurts,

And you don’t know quite why,
So you write it out, but
Now you can see how much

What you just wrote falls short
Of what you liked they wrote,
And that only hurts more.