The Naturalist’s Last Love Poem

Nothing on earth

can last forever.

It’s become an art:

rain and the river

cut cliffs. Cold swings;

leaves fall with fervor.

Birds molt: their wings

lost feather by feather.

By increments,

tides slink like fever

from shore. Immense,

they drift out further.

So, when she leaves,

the world’s small favor:

I’ll forget, by degrees—

if over and over.