The dead’s handwriting
has power to affect us.
The ink was as fresh
as if only yesterday
the brush had been dipped.
He blurred the paper with tears
and re-read her words;
then consigned them to the flames.
Smoke spiralled to the heavens.
He no longer craved
longevity from the gods.
As the snow drifted,
his despondency increased.
The end of the year approached.
Candia Comes Clean 
beautiful
Thank you.