Fold your hands over your chest.
Focus your chalky blue eyes
on whatever is straight ahead.
And now, childhood, say goodbye.
My silhouette walks through chilly rain
to mourn your passing alone.
The floral ground is tearstained.
There’s a rose on your headstone.
On a bed of Baby’s Breath
skips your ghost, barefoot and wild.
You smile through the haze of death,
the free and careless smile of a child.
Still, every spring, without fail
I smell Baby’s Breath on the air.
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