Tell me, Rock, do you think
my mother misses feeling gravity’s sly tug
as she lifted her hand
to brush my cheek?
And would that be enough to lure her back
to sniff her roses,
to feel again the planet’s brow beneath her feet?
It seemed she loved it here.
But what do I know
of the dead, what they miss? I ask you questions,
Rock. And feel in reply,
the absence that grows
when the last of the afternoon birds goes quiet
and the evening birds
haven’t yet sung.
by Clare Rossini
from Plume Magazine
