In my head is a closed door—
It shut the day you died.
No longer opened by
a gentle knock, an unimpeded push inside
to encounter you
drinking mate at the table
a sideways grin, knitting needles
tapping out the rhythm
of your breath,
of the gold fleck in your eye.
In my dreams sometimes,
I visit you, lay my head upon your table,
snow falling outside
a black border collie exhausted at your feet.
But then I awaken and the door slams shut,
Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?
You fade like steam.
All that remains is the yerba mate gourd,
bitter leaves still damp,
a ball of raw wool
rolls under the table.
Just Carrie 
This is so beautiful and so deeply felt, Carrie. Thank you for sharing.
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Carrie, I so hear your voice in your writing. This is another lovely, heart-wrought piece. I sense your grief, and feel empathy. Thank you for sharing, yet again.
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Tendremos cicatrizes permanentes por la falta de ella.
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Thank you for this, Carrie. It is lovely.
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Lovely and sad.
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I like
“Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?
You fade like steam.”
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Ah Carrie, such a sad and lovely poem. The last image: the ball of raw wool that rolls away, leaves my heart heavy. Thank you for sharing your words that hold sorrow for us all.
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Lovely tribute to your dear Ellen. I know you miss her.
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