The air is full of crossings.
Smoke unravels into the trees,
and I can almost hear
the slow footsteps of what has gone.
The ground softens,
and the roots speak in a darker tongue.
They tell me: the dead are not elsewhere,
only quieter,
folded into the hush between breaths.
The wind smells of apples,
of endings that were also beginnings.
Somewhere a candle refuses to die,
its flame bowed but unbroken—
a small persistence against forgetting.
Tonight,
I do not ask the veil to lift.
I only sit beside it,
hands open,
listening to the old year
turning over in its sleep.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
Great poetry, Brenda!