In memory of one whose absence is still felt

by Ken Sehested

Absent now the countenance, the familiar
inflection, the identifiable measured
sound of steps, the scent of palm
and cheek. Lungs, stilled.
But breathless?

Only returned to the One Breath, who
hovers still, sowing and reaping,
reaping and sowing, to the
day when all shall play
’neath vine and fig,
and none shall
be afraid.

©Ken Sehested @