Hospice Heart

When spring begins to warm the ground,

the silence hums, a sacred sound.

A breeze, a breath, not gone, but passed

from form to form, too pure to last.

They are not lost. They are the flame

that flickers on without a name.

They drink from stars we cannot see,

and whisper through the willow tree.

Do not say gone. Say turned to light.

Say entered sky, became the night.

Their love remains, a song, a thread

no soul is ever truly shed.

Here in this place, where flowers rise,

they live in hearts, in tears, in skies.

And Hospice-like a lantern glows

with all the light their presence knows.