Smoke

By Rosalyn 
It's just the story of the gray and black
man of old age grabbing and holding
and squeezing the little tree,
Spacious butterfly girl, she who I had
only just begun to fully appreciate
down into a hard, still
colorful lump.

How can I let go, how
stop fighting? The gray man is
just smoke, the joyful blue has
more substance.

Pieces of me - leaving them behind for others,
memories are not here in me.