Heads bowed in prayer,

the room sits motionless

save the swelling of tears

and a single suspended balloon.

Discordant in its lightness,

tied to the handle of a casket

whose small dimensions

defy its sorrowful heft,

it rotates under dim lighting.

A macabre marquee of tinny silver

and pastel blue,

its silent cacophony

heralding “Baby Boy!”

in vibrant letters

as it pulls taut its silken tether.

R.I.P. Baby Asher

From a book whose binding creaks in protest

of being opened for the first time in ages

falls a folded profession of love. Compressed

between brittle and neglected pages,

scrawling hand perfectly preserved on

paper long ago torn from a pocket-sized

notebook, remains the feelings of one

meant solely for another. Amended and revised,

the labored lines meander around unsuited

words like an aged river yearning for the sea.

Either forgotten by its author once concluded

or forsaken by the adored, the passionately

penned love letter, concealed in its tome, sadly survived

decades longer than the undying love it vehemently described.