One lovely afternoon
I sit on my back porch,
facing the wild woods where
thin
narrow
trees
stand
tall, and
broken, ragged-edged
trunks rest their
sorrow
on the cold, dark earth.
I have no particular thought,
no prayer,
no agenda.
I sit, when an unexpected grief visits me, and
thoughts and memories turn to Mom,
gone too many years now.
I sense a longing
to talk again with her, to say,
“How are you, Mom?”
but only the silent echo
of a tear answers me.
I guess the wild woods knows better than me
how much I still miss her.
