It Was Amy

She turns around
now and then
to look, to gaze
behind her
at something eternally
familiar...
the beating heart
the stillborn image
floating free...
catching up in time
to touch her soul
reminding her
that
once she had a child
named Amy.

That quiet giggle
passing sometimes
in a breeze
across the lawn
scented with her
sunlit hair . . . dancing

could have been a butterfly
perhaps, but no.

And then that young man
who returns each year
the day in May
when she was born

to find her spirit
playful
at the water's edge
around the cove
where she stands again
with pebbles shining
in her hands . . . Amy.

Joanne Cucinello