A poem
Now gone, with the exhalation of the wind,
a sweet and soulful symphony,
a melody, carelessly thrown,
white glitter, forgotten notes.
The shadows have their reason.
They fly on yesterday’s wings,
like specters, growing faint
on a fingernail moon night.
How beautiful the flower
that yields without duress,
bent, like willows in the wind.
I’ve lost a child along the way