Years ago, at my Mothers funeral, I saw my father reach for my Mothers hand to tell her something and saw the terrible distress, the recognition that she was gone. This poem is dedicated to him and that moment of loss.
Wind swirled grass flows in patterns
Like the thoughtless patterns traced
By the hands of an impassioned lover
Understood only by the restless wind
Mesmerized, distracted, not thinking
I stand staring, wondering, enjoying
I turn, reach out for your soft hand
Find emptiness, nothingness, a ghost
I turn to find that missing softness
The empty space, the achingly hollow
Place where you should be and aren’t
Ice cold reality returns and I sigh
Wind swirls the grass randomly still
Heads of seed, nod knowingly patient
Harvest comes to us all, the whisper
Of the scythe the only small warning