Epitaph

There is no stone
other than the scent
of where your feet last
stood on earth
and crushed the grass.

Crushes still.

No song sung sweeter
than your breathing
drawing in, letting out.

Breathing still.

No ceremony more sanctifying
than your risings and slumberings,
your movement through
the spaces your body graced.

Graces still.

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2 thoughts on “Epitaph

  1. Anna Stewart says:

    Haunting. This is an aching poem, the absence felt clearly even though the speaker keeps re-iterating affirmations that “you” are still here. That last stanza, the one starting “No ceremony” is my favorite…but the whole poem is lovely.

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