As it is in Heaven
You would hardly have known
she had gone, but for the buds
on the juniper tree, blaring
into blossom, when hoar frost
was still feathering the vine...
but for the silence of her violin,
never have known she’d died
beneath a Winter’s moon
spilling from the mouths
of mounding clouds...
Never been aware of her passing,
except for the tolling of a bell,
as it rolled on through a dismal,
December’s morn. Not known
at all...save for the whippoorwill’s
plaintive song, begging she stay,
just one more day...holding back
the creep and the sweep of the tide,
and the heaven’s sweet sway.