Nestled                                    “And we, who have always thought  of happiness as rising, would feel  the emotion that almost overwhelms us  whenever a happy thing falls.” -Rainer Maria Rilke     Her eyes. Must have had her eyes. In death – those eyes – her eyes see patterns in the dark. Those swirls knowing nothing of life. No visage of children playing,  no knowledge of growth, no touch of warmth. Only warmth was in mother. The womb is now a graveyard. A bloodline hollowed. Child never to know the breast only to suckle the wanness of death. But child is mother and mother is also sacrificed.   No garden for this flower-like death yet the wind’s purpose is to sing the song of the anonymous. Profundity lies in being unnamed and intangible. Delight in the sorrow of memory.   Endings are reserved for the living. Blood in this mother’s veins spreads like ivy and dreams, like grief, only penetrate from the dark. Endings are reserved for the living. Endings fracture what is not here.   There is no conclusion that hides in reflective tears. Close those eyes. Seal those eyes, unburied like sickness. Sheath the flesh but not a mother’s love.   The reasoning is umbilical, for one cannot leave a shadow behind.     - D. Garcia-Wahl