When You Died

 

Somewhere thereís a meadow

Hear the flute playing

Sweet tunes

Somewhere the grass whistles whispers rustles

Bugs buzz

There is the old tree  rotten at the center  holding water in its roots

Fairy swimming pools.

Mama, your fingers are summer flowers, dried Queen Anneís lace, brown,

          brittle.

Mama, the oxygen is a breeze your breath is the wind,

You stretch out your arms to the sweet grass and pillows become clouds        

          grand in the blue sky.

Mama, you breathe in and out you are the whole world to me.

Itís getting dark, the meadow is changing

Pale moths begin to seek the night flowers and each other.

We must leave the meadow.

Stretched beneath the old tree you lie,

Quiet now, no more breathing.

A small animal, paws curled, on your back, mouth open showing black

          inside.

Heavy closed eyes, head flung back.

 

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