an Italian sonnet
Your hand in mine, preparing for goodbye,
our eyes are glued upon the other's face.
No need for words just yet, we span the space
that separates two souls when death is nigh.
One final kiss upon your cheek, I sigh,
"You go on up ahead to heaven's place
and I will join you shortly by God's grace."
That said, with nod he waves as I sit by.
Weeks later I retreat to quiet grief.
Is that a seagull's welcome cry I hear,
lamenting hum of foghorn's innate drone?
Our fav'rite lighthouse where I seek relief -
I've come to scatter ashes from its pier.
to sound a hymn for you, for me alone.