The slight give under pressure 
when we touch soft flesh of those we love:

heel of the hand; the tender pads 
on fingertips; the mounds and folds 
we warm against and settle into; 
breast and neck crease, hips, 
curve of the cheek, of lips.

There might be more, but now 
there’s this:  the taking in our arms 
again a living world.

When we are ash and air, 
and light as down, 
that’s what we’ll miss.