By Rob Mohr



When my mother died 

my sister bathed her 

in the silent stillness 

of death’s embrace 

where love alone

could not save.

Watching too

I turned my head

In time to see

the bare essentials

laying there,

fallen leaves

that marked her stay.

Her spirit’s passage

too quick to see

drew heat from candles

to warm her way,

dimmed the lights

as she passed us by,

a gentle breeze

that marked the day.

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