The Scarf

We do not grieve

Like those who have

No hope

But we mourn

All the same

And weep like Jesus

For death is loss

To those who remain

Our letting go

No casual achievement 

We labour and ache

For contact

A physical connection

I pick up the scarf

I bought for her

In Paris

Feel the smoothness 

Of her skin 

The soft scent

Of her perfume

And carry it with me

A year or two

Until the fragrance 

Fades away
No longer
Held