Sunday, April 3, 2016

Ribbons Winter 2016


no one 
calling my name
this morning
a cup of water stays cold
in the microwave

for the memorial 
the chrysanthemums
quietly wither
on the side

an avalanche 
of memories snowballing
into grief
the stories behind
a box of receipts

every now and then 
the flicker of a firefly . . .
still in my hand
all of you I need
to let go

not accepting
what goodbye really means
my breath lingers
in every shape and sound
of spring dusk

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