Whispers

There is no reason to listen for she is gone.
Her voice has been stilled and will no more
answer my comments, queries, pleas.
Not even sibilant sounds from her lips reach
our ears nor warm our hearts or cold souls.

Silences deep now fill my heart since
Wisconsin's dark wet soil claimed her as his own.
His turf would not part to release her back,
nor return to us our source of warmth, warmer
than the great golden orb in cloudless sky above.

Drunkenness accompanied us aboard the California
bound train and bore me home to an apartment
bare, scoured clean of her fragrant presence, her
velvet voice, her touch, our years together gone.
Lord,how with my daughter do I just carry on?

Could I fail to see her mother in her being?
To hear her cries of longing in the night?
Her mother's voice denying that Death had been
her awful final choice? Can I stand for her and
fight Death's strong pull to reach the light?

Learn more about this author, Norman Weibel.
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