Every year I weave these words like thread,
In an age old pheran,
The type our ancestors must have worn,
Back in the valleys of our parents youth,
And I wish you’d been there when I returned,
Your eyes would have spoken so differently to mine,
But as I wove these words across the skies,
Crimson flashed across my canvas,
In shades that I cannot explain to you,
But know that every year as the leaves begin to fall,
With grace and beauty, I remember you.
Spring brings blossom,
And hiding my tears in tones of pink,
As they write poetry across my cheeks,
The sweet words hide the melancholy,
Ringing, echoing through the walls,
Of my soul and spirit,
Like the world struggling to hide it’s crimes,
My walls shake once again, and struggling to stand,
I write upon this page,
Knowing the source maybe your father, or his,
Maybe my mother, or hers,
And as spring begins to blossom,
With determined eyes, and rosy cheeks,
I remember you.
Sitting under this autumn tree in spring.
There are no leaves left to fall,
And you’re still so full of life behind these eyes of mine,
So as the world stumbles and falls,
I learn to walk with grace,
Because the little girl you left behind,
Isn’t so little any more,
Like this autumn tree in spring,
Every year allowing your memory to root,
I learn to stand again.
In loving memory, of a beautiful soul.