It’s three hours until sunlight
will break horizon’s edge.
My campfire spits and crackles,
sending a shower of sparks
in all directions.
Sitting cross-legged near the heat
I don’t need to look to feel
her presence here.
“I know you miss me tonight?
But it’s not time for you to go.”
I nod and toss a handful of twigs
to feed the dying flames.
Soft as a summer breeze she adds,
“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose
comes round in another form.”
So true. And firewood needs cutting
for the coming winter cold.
And our annual flower garden
already in bloom
demands daily watering, too.
And just like the last dried leaf
breaks free from its tree
she took her leave
from me while my campfire
spits and crackles.