Other people say it better: Part two
All afternoon the sprinkler ticks and sprays,
ticks and sprays in lazy rounds, trailing
a feather of mist. When I turn it off,
the cicadas keep up their own dry rain,
passing on high from limb to limb.
I don’t know what has shocked me more,
that you are gone, that I am still here,
that there is music after the end.
(I found this poem in the June issue of The Atlantic, which I was idly skimming at the pool. Yesterday’s poem came from the excellent poetry foundation website: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/, which I highly recommend you visit.)