The Weight of Absence *

It is her presence
I miss most.
I loved the weight
Of the air
When she was in the room.
The soft exhalation
Of her breath
Punctuated the passing
Of time.

She moved effortlessly
Through the day
As gentle and as quiet
As a butterfly
Dancing from blade to bloom.

It is remarkable 
That absence becomes a presence.
In strange ways
The memory of her
Casts more shadow
Than did her being in the room.

And thus will it ever be.


* For my Monarch, my Anam Cara