Flowers

It’s like watching you come slowly back down,
floating back to me from some celestial realm.
You return, always convinced in good and beauty,
that flowers will be waiting and opening for you.

You always claimed the bloom as your own.

How I tried to make it so, constantly doing
deeds which you and others would feel are ‘good’
although my performance of them 
was with little care, running on autopilot

just to get a pat on the head. Good dog.

I try to look inside my mind for answers,
but it is devoid of them. An empty place.
I sense your presence, in that changing
from winter to spring, fully formed,

then melting away with the ice.

It’s strange how some things
fade, beyond the grasp of remembrance,
yet others, often insignificant, remain,
as if chiselled into stone,

hammered into me.

Was the road you took an easier one,
is it one you would still take today?
Did you even think that you could
have taken me with you,

though you ensured that road was closed.

Now all I can do is listen to sounds
that I think are you.
Feeling an ethereal touch 
as spirits of the past meet bones of the present,

waiting for their remaining flesh to fall.

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