There have been other days of the dead,
days that were not celebrated,
days where tears fell like autumn leaves,
days when the world felt dark and lonely,
like the day I held her hand as she struggled to breathe
and I held my breath trying to will her back.
It was a day when she left and never came back.
Outside my window the cottonwoods are weeping,
their yellow leaves raining down like tears,
another sort of dying I suppose.
And I’m left picking up the tears
and drying my face.
November 2, 2016