Mothers are missed,
I too, miss my mother,
but more often,
I miss the screaming wind among the treetops
While camping in the woods.
We are human, we grow to miss one another,
We are built that way,
We build attachments out of days,
And sew blankets out of habit, all the time,
Missing each other is all we know,
But I miss more the cawing of crows
And crackling firewood,
And taking a long drunken piss off a cliff.
These days, I miss more the blisters and sores
That carve weariness and thirst into one’s muscles.
I miss the slopes of loose rocks,
My fingertips have the clearest memory,
But unfortunately people’s faces have faded,
In my head, their voices are muffled,
But oh the cawing of crows will outlive us all…