Letter in February.

The woman is complete and perfected.
Feet saying we have gone so far,
And now it is over.
Bottle of wine now empty.
A petal-free rose, torn and ripped.
The moon can not be saddened,
Looking down at her now.
Timbers winding up, up into crooked
Shoes not fully worn, not enough creases
Not enough footsteps.
Not enough miles walked.
Broken hearts and sadness,
Havoc tossed like angry seas through
Weak, paper hearts.

For you, Auntie. You will be greatly missed.

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