April

April is always bitter sweet.

Paternal loss, I'm incomplete.

Roses pink, and in full bloom

It is her symbol, and my heirloom.

Love connects us still.

Slivers of conversations past.

Head full of images that never last.

Only fifty-eight- then and forever

With April birthday, aging never.

Every year your gone, errors fade away

Remember, you too were made of clay.

Still connected by love.