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.