At Sunset

Your death must mean just enough 

not to curse the day you were born,
to stand by the water’s edge

and not want to swim with stones

until the first dark wave takes
me under in a fetal pose,

sinks me down in the last breath,

the clear waters almost your ghost
pushing me back, allowing

me to walk away.

Of course, I will push your toes, even
the missing small one, back into your shoes.

I will cast your coffin that was my


crib on the soft tide telling
you have nothing to be sad about.
What started as a poem about a departed dear friend turned into something else.  Just a different exploration of grief.

My mother lost one of her little toes from diabetic complications.
Jonathan Moya reads At Sunset