It is unfortunate but true and necessary
that the living must mourn death with fresh life
and life slowly becomes a sediment of memory
As we bury love with new leaves and grieve
not for what was gone, but for what remains after they left:
the endless moments we must live bereft;
so many words we wish were never left unsaid;
the last things that now lie with our departed.
Today, the morning is still like a lake.
We hold each other together, lest we break.
The trees whisper sermons under their breath.
Elegies rise from nature’s rustling breeze.
I want to stand here until I become a tree.
Every orchid reminds me of my mother