Missing

I have lost
The soft
Scent of my mother
Somewhere under the earth
of Southern France
Silent
And safe
I am left
To carry this grief

The loss
Is hard and heavy
In its silence

She would have smiled
At the soft weight
Of her own paradox

I miss most
The tenderness
Melting from the crisp blue grey
Of her eyes
Equivalent to a touch
Though surprisingly warmer
And the powdery, soft coolness of her face
And neck
The scent
Of Lavender
Sifted

She never raised
Her voice
Ever
But I hear it now

Singing.