and i am faced with another spring day
where you are still not here
the clouds fall into my hair
and the rustling of flowers sit beside me
i perch beside your rose-colored marble
and finger the few blades of grass
that have dared to grow
the wildness of this ache where you should be
holds me closely
i breathe into the sound of baby birds
calling for their mother
and i am reminded that you never will
i search for traces of you in the mockingly blue sky
and my lips pulse warmly
from kissing the top of your tiny grave
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 