So strange to find you here, wasting under the weeds. Not only are you dead, you’re missing. No one left knows where your body is buried.
As a child, you were always in your mother’s sight.  She’s gone, too, no hand to lay on you.  But if a mother’s intuition lives on, she’ll turn over one last time, knowing you are two stones down.

silence . . .
so fluent
a language

Peter Jastermsky