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.
Your eyes, my lines.
The Musings of a Writer / Freelance Editor in Training
THE RUSH HOUR BLOG
short fiction writer * PUSH Community leader * writing teacher
Swimming in the Ridiculous Like a Tuna With a Mistress
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Truth Written In The Wind
Dive into a collection of memories, musings and emotions delicately concocted into stories and introspective articles
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Finding Your Words
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