But perhaps— you are
not forgotten. Not truly.
Your voice threads the dusk
between radio static,

slips between keystrokes,
hums in the silence
after a song we don’t know
why we love.

The garlands might wilt.
But the roots are
underground and unsupervised.
And still growing.

At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here. I’m fine.

You have to let go and not hold on
When life's past has cut you to the bone
Cast away the anchors
grasp
Cut the ropes , drop sails on the mast
Check the weather that the sunrise casts
Let go , Let go ,
. . . the ugly past

Seashells so pretty
Blue ocean that calls to me
Beneath shadows dream