It never mattered that there was once a vast grieving: trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping – a plastic gold dropping through seasons and centuries to the ground – until now. On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent I am holding, as if my hand could store it, an ornament of amber you once gave me. Reason says this: the dead cannot see the living. The living will never see the dead again. The clear air we need to find each other in is gone forever, yet this resin once collected seeds, leaves and even small feathers as it fell and fell which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as they ever were as though the past could be present and memory itself a Baltic honey – a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing-off of just how much can be kept safe inside a flawed translucence.