There is no death
there is memory, resting in flowers,
soft sounds that return
at unexpected moments,
making us pause
that voice,
those hands,
that tenderness,
the scent of peonies,
the scent of summer near
Sing, birds,
let us be glad
with those who no longer ask to be noticed,
Even if we forget
they will be remembered
by the wind
by the colors
by the earth that once carried them
Memory opens the wide peony blooms,
and there,
between the petals,
looks at us
a caring
eternity