Continuum
The morning after,
the world dares to be beautiful—
sunlight filters through the reluctant embrace of clouds,
and her garden,
neglected in the rush of darker days,
blooms defiantly.
Each petal unfurls,
a silent rebellion against the grief
that weighs like stones in my pockets,
every blossom a sharp intake of breath
in the quiet she left behind.
I wander through her hallways,
trails of color she planted with foresight,
knowing spring would come regardless
of who was here to see it.
Her touch lingers on the tender vines,
guiding them upward,
toward the light I struggle to perceive.
How she loved these mornings,
dew like pearls on green fingers,
the earth soft and yielding under her hands,
a communion I observed
from the window, coffee in hand,
always thinking there was another day,
another season.
Now, the garden grows without her,
and I am left to tend the blooms—
jealous of how they reach for the sky
without her coaxing,
how they thrive,
as if loss is natural,
as if it is simply another type of nourishment.
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. He contributes to both the academic community and policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.