Roses To Ash Poem by Rajitha K.S. Ayyappan

When February bloomed
with bouquet of red roses,
he left us.

It wasn't a sudden departure—
but slow,
like his dripping I.V.

He used to say
he felt like an amputee
without mom's warm balance,
tethered to her bed all the time—
like a pillow.

Now, I tread beneath the weight
of his spoken words,
while I sit in his armchair,
handicapped by thought.

Maybe that's why
we don't bury our loved ones.
We let them go—
bones to ash.

Red roses ooze wilted fragrance.
Now, they only smell like ash.