When the news said tonight was the full moon,
the strawberry moon, I thought it was
some sort of metaphor, not that the moon
would glow a pinkish-gold over black trees
in a night thick with the scents of flowers,
rabbits like statues under dark bushes,
quick deer hooves clattering under streetlights.
When we prayed for gun safety, I didn’t
realize how the memories would rise
of all the survivors tracking the cracks
spidering towards them from those old impacts,
waiting helplessly for glass to shatter.
I almost forgot that years ago this
was the day you surgically removed
yourself from this realm in favor of that,
a kind of cesarean section, when
everything was too full or empty of
everything else, when the edges were plump
and raw. You swore there was nothing like God,
and I swear I glimpsed you climbing up stairs
made of glass floating in the infinite.
Rosefire Rising 
Interesting observations on expectations vs reality. The first two I could relate to the last was tougher – my parents died so very long ago that it is hard to remember (I have found myself talking to my mom in the same way I talk to God)
This was for the yahrzeit of a friend. Some losses are harder than others. It’s not always the folk you know the best.
A beautiful poem.