The carbon atom has six electrons
  that move faster than bodies move
    from one form to another, from
  one type of existence to another,
  not changing in the changing matter
  of the things your mother saved,

though they themselves cannot be saved
  or, rather, will be different electrons
    when they arrive as the matter
    in items that will always move
  through the apparent stasis of other
  items: small spoons, plates, jars from

her silent kitchen, steadily jumping from
  potholders, broken cups, their handles saved
    separately. Saved things resting in other
  latitudes mostly don’t relax. The electrons
    must get tired between orbits, moving
  like teleutons in sestinas where matter

repeats itself, though memory doesn’t matter
    as much to them. Water from
    the pond in her garden moves
  in her absence. Impossible to save
  things she cared for. Carbon’s electrons
    wave in & release each other

without noticing. Of course your mother
    could let nothing go. It matters
  that she tried. Somehow the electrons
    of saved jars don’t change forms
    over time but still resemble saved
  jars. Maybe distances where they move

ceaselessly gather force so they move
    as blended nothings, losing at other
  times. You miss her helplessly, saved
  by routine most days. What mattered
    in her life was love from
    an endless world, love like electrons

that keep moving, though, really, electrons
  love in other ways, changing from
    them to us until everything matters—

This is drawn from “Still House in the Desert.”