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THIS IS.
This is the pond
she called your lake,
trees still surround,
similar sky,
birds sing,
but she has gone,
cancer ridden,
to an early plot.
This is where you sat
and talked
and laughed,
this green grass,
grows still,
flowers near by,
but she had been taken
death's finger
judged her ripe to die.
This is the sky
beneath which
you lay,
eyes focusing
on clouds move
and shape
and size,
but she is no more,
cancer
caressed her
and it gave
deadly kiss;
it is not sky
or bird or flower,
but she you miss.
This is where
she lay
and kissed
and held your hand
and loved you deep,
but she has died
of cancer's curse,
its deadly touch,
she has gone
and is missed
so much.
