Fading

The most bitter end
is when one is lost to the softest of wind.

No storm, no torrential gale.

The glorious blossom fades wit time,
the poetry gradually grows tired and has no rhyme.

I've watched my mother become a ghost.
Week by week, she slips away into a mist of memory.

She grows silent.

It is like watching a beautiful sailboard with brilliant sails, glistening in the sun over a sparkling ocean of incredible blue.

And suddenly, she falls beneath the horizon,
no longer in view.

She is gone.

And my heart fades, too.