In Mourning

I mourn the passing of the clouds
Like an old friend whose life is cut short
There remains much to remind me;
A puddle of memory
A drip – something special
Ripples the surface.

A wet branch grows taller
As if to reach out and grab the clouds
Beckoning to them to come back
Come back
And a smell, so distinct
As it fills the fields in aroma
I cry, sweet sorrow

As like a coffin, my last memory
Soaks deeply into the soiled ground
As it lowers, 6 feet under
A warmth, a heat of something different
Threatens and calls to the memories,
Taking them back
Towards the turquoise sky

But something with in me calls as well
And in my heart, clouds are forming
And I know, a dear friend is never lost
Until they are forgotten.