March’s Whisper

Remembering my mother on 8 March

Three moons have turned since you slipped away, yet your laughter lingers in the thawing air

— a melody of spring, soft as petals strewn, where daffodils bow, and the earth repairs.

Your hands, once warm as the March sun’s embrace, now stitch silver threads through twilight’s veil.

I find you in the dusk—a breath,

a trace—

in crocuses that stubbornly prevail.

The clock ticks grief, but the seasons insist:

you are the sap in the maple’s slow climb, the cardinal’s hymn through the morning mist, the quiet that heals the fractures of time.

Do not fade, I whisper.

The stars reply—

Love is the root no winter can untie.