If souls

Once cleaved from their bodies

Could keep some corporeal form

To see, to speak, to touch

If souls

Like ashes planted by nimble fingers

Cared for, nourished, cherished

Could sprout fresh every spring

Those souls

Single, bloody blooms

Skirts red, seed pods full

Of euphoria

If souls

Like perennial blossoms

Would be reborn with the seasons

Faithfully returning year after year

Tombstones rising from the slumbering earth

If grief

Like perfume woven into the threads

Of a well worn knit sweater

Like dreams in the early morning

Drifting into the mist of the dawn lit fog

Like inked pages left in the sun

Like souls

Could fade