Pine and marigold petals between a rocky rift, where we once came – wine and a basket of fine wicker, my grandmothers. Ten years past- only desolate shadows remain, voices and laughter riding on the wind. Your consciousness lingering, still ominous and present; between peaks of the rift, remembering those days once cherished, before you were ten feet in the cold earth. Your pale dead gaze must be upward, looking for heaven, for our meadow- for those days with the wicker basket. |