Come walk with me among the dead that sodden path where life has bled. We’ll whisper names that time’s forgot brush clean the stones that mark their lot: and linger there to contemplate how brief a life is all our fate. A blink, a breath, a fading light consign the soul to that dark night.
Born out of time, a fault not your own, bearing along the wisdom of sages, on tiny dove-like wings you lit upon the earth. Spreading wider to touch with gentle flutter, for one sweet, though bitterly brief, moment. A whisper soft impression from the artist’s brush left upon a canvas of glue and gold, and gray and black. Your golden…
LETTING GO “He’s not  breathing,” my husband’s voice shattered the peace in the room at eight o’clock that Saturday morning. “What?” I replied sharply, as if what was happening was his fault because he was the one to notice it first. “Yes, he is,” I demanded with tenacity. I jumped up from my seat in the corner of the room…