To consider the departure of one held dear elevates
every moment to memorial, every sound to symphony.
The rhythm of their steps become the sweetest song.
The traces of their existence, blankets left askew,
boots laying idly by the door, coffee mugs left behind,
they become the evidence of an angel passing through.
"If you love a flower, let it be." Well this is no flower,
this is a singing bird who alighted on my palm
and graced my life with soft melodies.
So if you love a bird, let her go.
Winter is calling her home.
So vision withers and memory fades,
and what was, is no more.