a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Emily Dickinson
Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers

Saturday, January 26, 2013

By the light of the silvery moon

The moon is big and clear and stark white tonight. There is a layer of snow, glittery ice over everything and it's bitter cold. It's a beautiful night. My little Moonbeam, I feel you close. We honored you today in a way that gave me back some pride as a mother to you. I miss you deeply. Four years ago feels like a lifetime ago and yesterday and today it felt like it was the present again in my aching heart. I am sorry. I love you.
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