Pine and marigold petals
between a rocky rift, where
we once came – wine and a basket
of fine wicker, my grandmothers.
Ten years past- only desolate
shadows remain, voices and laughter
riding on the wind. Your consciousness
lingering, still ominous and present;
between peaks of the rift,
remembering those days once cherished,
before you were ten feet in
the cold earth.
Your pale dead gaze must be upward,
looking for heaven, for our meadow-
for those days with the