A Stranger Spoke©Lyn Crain

Your Mother asked me

to spread her ashes in a garden.

Remember how happy she was

puttering amongst the roses?

 The wind sweeps

her beloved blooms before

 what ifs and might haves

begin again.

Silence echoes, and awkward shifts

as the ashes float away.

A gentle flutter to

tease the blooms and

a  smudge of gray

are left behind.

 

 

 

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