It was cold where we buried her,
On a hill, in the winter wind,
No marker yet, not until Spring,
No tears yet, but shivering.

Back to her home, empty now
Except for all of us; brighter now
With food, conversation, pictures
Passed of a faraway baby.

A smoke outdoors on the sidewalk,
In cold sunlight away from the empty porch.
A long trip ahead, strapped in the sky,
Up through the blueness, into the sun.

Suitcases on our bed unpacked, this goes here,
And that surely, as before, hangs there.
No mother now, not until Spring,
No tears left, but shivering.