Poem by Lisa Zaran
My son must pass on like a love that has died
and be buried in gratitude for the time he had.
In his external form he will look up at the ground
and ask: how long?
And I, what will I do? Plant seeds and tend
the soil and feed the earth with my tears.
My son must sprout through dust to live again
in colors I will never cut to fancy up a window sill
but care for in all their radiance. I will be light,
he will be blossom.