When we scattered mother,
the ash swirled about me
like a cape. I breathed her
in, then spit out what
I could into the winter grass.
Metaphor’s bitter aftertaste
lingered between my teeth
for years. Now, left with
a handful of ash to toss
to the wind, I resist this
final gesture, and begin
again. Life’s easy without
thought, or a nearby pattern
to hold one together, despite
death’s constant push to contain
the living who remain.
(December 12, 2019)
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