Loss


Here, I said,
as I handed over an empty glass jar,
we stood there,
silent,
under the protective shade of a willow tree.
What is it? She asked,
turning the jar over in her delicate hands,
My soul, I said,
to help me during the times
in which I need to be saved.
She looked up at me and smiled,
pocketing the glass jar in her
black bag,
I smiled too, unaware that,
fifteen years later
I would find the shards of the same
glass jar,
at the foot of the same
willow tree.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem