I blew you a kiss today,
But it was just your initials on a tree,
In the woods we went to on that day,
When our family still had three.
The letters were carved by grieving hands,
When you were two months in the grave,
Our desperate, futile, sad attempt
For your memory to be saved.
You aren't the tree, the woods. spring air,
Though in them you feel close,
Your presence, which we cannot have
Is what we long for most.