I was guided to this poem this quiet and somber Oakland morning...
One morning beginning to notice
Which thoughts pull the spirit out of the body, which return it.
How quietly the abandoned body keens,
like a bonsai maple surrounded by her dropped leaves.
Rain or objects call the forgotten back.
The droplets' placid girth and weight. The table's lack of ambition.
How strange is that longing, too, becomes a small green bud,
thickening the vacant branch-length in early March.
from After by, Jane Hirshfield