Mum, the gifts were not given in return: A poem 

I remember the day Mum passed, 

and I felt blocked out, like a stone 

across a cave’s entrance. I felt 

I was thrust in the orphanage of the world, 

even though I was in my late fifties 

Fate was thrifty with me, and was hefty. 

My guilt was shifty. I thought I didn’t do 

enough. The windows could hear my grief 

but I felt no one else outside did. I could 

lampoon myself as ridiculous. The gifts 

were not given in return. I could feel the  

stick of fate never forgive. There were ashes  

in my repertoire of excuses for finding solace, 

even tears don’t deserve absolution 

I hoped time was resolution; like a grave 

exhumed later. I hoped love was conclusion 

like perennials, that you suddenly discover 

deserve your care. I could express thankfulness 

at walking, waking, wallowing in memories 

I could sleep at night with the gratitude 

I could now exhibit, despite remorse, that love 

Could I have a morse code to a realm that hears 

my thanks and sorrys? Could I feel worried 

that I cannot hurry to an Epilogue where 

worlds meet like shadows in the street?