The first thing I post in months is a depressing poem. Go figure.

Sometimes
There are rose petals on my mother's grave--
Soft pink on cold stone,
Like her hands used to be.
The wind casts them aside--wedding rings
Forgotten in cold hotel rooms
Frigid
Like my mother's hands.

I sit on the grass on windy days
And wait as she descends from the sky.
We watch the petals blow.
You have his eyes, she says.
But you are warm.

I wrap my scarf around her headstone.
That is my soul, she says. His canvas. He painted it gray.
Sometimes I think about his eyes.
Sometimes I think about nothing at all.

I ask,
What are you thinking about now?

My hands are cold.