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She loved lilies, her cowboy,
a good laugh, and every shade of green—
lived many years without him,
now in bones beside him
with the river’s melody
beneath them both, serene.
March 20, the first buzz of spring—
Spring—like the trumpeting of lilies,
cherry blossoms, birthdays,
and new spring green, only lasts so long—
but like an Irish ballad, or an old Welsh song
sung from memory—
the missing her goes on,
evergreen.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Trembling at the beach
on a day meant for indoors,
tossing her ashes
like a paper airplane
in the wind,
we knew it was
always going to be this way—
she was always
going to come back to us,
one way or another—
her ghost on the cereal box, first thing,
her costumes hanging in the attic,
somehow noisily animated
after dark.
Each of our eyes
a Lucky Strike,
red-rimmed and wondering
how to pilot
the rest of it
without her.
For the List at Shay’s Word Garden