If life stretched on forever,
would we still kneel in the wild mint
just to listen to the wind?
It’s the fire burning low
that draws us near.
The song, fading
that makes us sing.
The morning mist lifting
that reveals the deer
in the clearing.
Grief is not just absence–
it’s the overflow
of all we didn’t say,
the touch we postponed,
a life paused too long
on someday.
We are each
a breath on glass,
a shadow just beginning to fall.
One day,
we’ll rise
as the last fog at sunrise–
already vanishing
as the light arrives.
Sof if you love,
say so.
If something stirs you,
listen.
The morning comes quickly.
And the fog
never stays.
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