Today
I didn’t bring flowers to your grave.
It was the first time in seven years
I walked these forsaken woodland paths,
thinking of who you’d be today,
without gathering handfuls
of white asters, bluebells, winding vines
of honeysuckle, sprigs
of berry buds taught and green,
blood-red leaves
singed with November frost, kneeling
to veil a barren altar
with a sacrifice of earth and origin,
bringing death for death.
But today
I ran my fingers
down the stem of the goldenrod
and felt life shimmering, whispering,
life forgiven and forgiving, and my hand
caressed the petals, your face,
there’s been enough death.
I knelt, offering only my hands this time
to this tribute to life,
and heard sunlight whispering
through stone and skin, rising
from shrouded spring
to become goldenrod
dancing in the wind.
