Compassionate arms of mums stretch out from the shadow of flowerpots. Lord, I wish I had a plot of land more than my grave. The grass dries to brown needles. A hint of ice comes on the wind. Children, lost in careless years, hold hands walking to school.
Marigolds bend to the light.
So, I bend to love. Lost in the jade empire of the sea. I wish I had done more or said otherwise. Yet I will stumble if I speak, stumble and break everything we have been saving, the glory between us made of glass. Let fog hide our wounds, let rain disguise the map to where our ages recoil, let the cold and damp draw us home to our own fires.