I’m not sure when
I stopped missing you,
no longer aching
every time I awakened.
I know it took years,
until I was at last filled
with the sweet emptiness
of age, like crow’s feet
left in the soft ground
by my eyes,
a gift from your face to mine.
I used to think
the dead walked among us,
voices forever
trying to be heard,
but now I think
we hear only memory,
notice crow’s feet
and such in the mirror,
sure signs of time
in all of its passing.
-
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Rob Mustard 
Hi Rob, beautiful poem, and I do hope you are healing. I remember you had a different blog, and thought you had disappeared! Very happy to see you are still writing.
xo
eden
Thank you, Eden, for your comment. Yes, I’m still writing, though not posting links through Twitter much anymore. My poems have become tighter and more focused, and I post less than I used to, and mostly on Facebook & Instagram.
Rob, thanks, and years later, again, sorry for your loss… inevitable. Odd how spirits remain, despite our best efforts, or no effort at all.