It's Mother's Day, and
you lay her favorite kind of flowers
on that aging grave. You sense
her presence near, and yet it
is of purest air. Her spirit drifts
within the wind, and so,
you breathe it in.
A vagrant tear, a heartfelt
and then you walk away. Somehow
you sense, that she is walking with you
still. Another veil lifted, as the truth
of love lives on. Death has never
been the end at all...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2002, Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .