Dew drops glisten 

on every single petal

of every single wild flower

almost as wild as he.

They bow their heads

nearly touching down

humbled by the way

he is finer than them.

He lays back

eyes seeking Heavens

though he stopped believing

a long time ago.

Fingers weave though

blades of grass

as once they did though

my own long hair.

''Smoke up the sun''

he utters but knows that

no one is listening anymore

no one but I.

We are lost souls

somewhere north of

some wicked place

Dante dared not speak of in his book.

We listen to the silence

as it grows and tries to crash over us

we listen as the clouds

stumble in the sky.

Puffs of smoke plume 

from his lips

but not once does he remember

to tell me that he's gone.  

© Christine Bottas. All rights reserved 2015-2018.