the birds keep singing

the ink
hardly dry on the paper.
the flowers
wilted but
not quite dead
in the vase.
the wrappings and ribbons
still
on the floor,
champagne gone flat,
three bottles
never poured.
how quickly
the tide
comes in, goes out.
what was
isn't anymore,
and yet as I stand
on the balcony
looking backwards,
the birds are still
singing.