Amber

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. ...