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.