Sunny by Marta May / Sunny’s mom

She is with me, as real
as the winter snow that blends
the tear upon my face.

And it is only when I try to touch her,
to make her linger yet awhile,
that she dies all over again.

A snowflake in my hand,
she is like a fragment
of melody that I find myself
humming unawares.

Evasive and elusive,
a song without words,
a song with no end.

While somewhere else
as I now say good-bye again,
as shadows of my shadow
pass before me, somewhere else
a pup leaps to greet
the morning sun, harmonic with the world.


I miss my girl,
30, Jan 2006
Marta May