I don’t write poetry much.
To do so taps depths I fear to tread, making me stare into the abyss for too long.
Her feet might have touched the earth lightly but she grasped my heart with both hands.
I released her to a world she ultimately loved more than anything else, including us.
Dove-like she flew, never to return, keeping a hold on my heart for herself.
This is for her.
Ache of being, place and song echo,
Gentle gestures, a sigh of sunbeams.
Shades and hues, crystaline sparkles,
Dappled blossoms, scintillating swirls.
Embracing laughter, heartbeat racing.
In the mind they live on, breathless,
Their grace rendering ripples
In the fabric of memory.
A gladness in charm,