Her

And so at the end of the night she had passed.
It came with the loss of something inside like
a dead branch in the thick of a cottony aster.

The pattern of life had changed within the moment
and what I did started to die. The movement to do
faded to grey and I wanted to sleep.

To pull the brittle twig from the bush
and throw it to the burning pile. Like a piece of
soul or spirit lodged in thought uprooted and
consumed in flames.

On this morning she was gone and I was a child again.

TJS, 2008