Appearances and vanishings: The sound of a rosebud opening. Leaves turning, released by the trees to fend for themselves on the wind. The same wind passing through our hair. The wind again, bearing the musk of wood smoke in its coils. First love. People passed on the street, or embedded in our lives. Our days and nights, in their linear way. The old ways already gone, the new can only follow their path. Some things that fall, rain or snow, vanish to reappear as something else; rivers, brooks, and oceans appear to be one thing yet continuously vanish. It seems strange to speak of the universe as it vanishes before my eyes. It seems strange to speak of anything since you vanished from my sight.