in buried earth, our memories lie
the lilies five in bloom did sigh,
their dying song the wine of her.
a leafless tree in shadow stirs
a host of branches do extend
and burst from bud as bark boughs bend.
this haze of a low morning sun
upon which stillness may be strung
as jewelled names touch lips in prayer
her spirit twines amidst the air
then gathers angels to her breath
the very same that come in death.
sweet death does whisper to the girl
`tis not the time for them to whirl.
♥for my mother
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
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