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.
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