Death is an open wound—

but one where wildflowers bloom.

Friendship wills its memories—

our summer’s laughter on the breeze.

And our footfalls falling—

upon the earth.

Faint echoes fading—

of our mirth?

No, there are wildflowers in her hair—

and they’re pretty and so lovely.

Yes, there’s beauty everywhere—

she walked and where she bloomed.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: