By Linda L. Holland

Atmospheric haze scatters sunlight’s opalescence
into waves of azure, cornflower, hyacinth. 

Those who’ve left us are dispersed in clouds of dust,
remnants of breath, our planet’s exhalations. 

You, my friend, are closer now to sky,
almost relieved of gravity, emptied of darkness,

as if indigo had surrendered itself
to dawn.

Linda L. Holland is a writer/musician. Her writing has been published in the Cortland Review, Clean Run, and the anthology An Even Dozen. Her music has won awards from ASCAP and has premiered at Carnegie and Wigmore Halls. Linda teaches at Santa Barbara City College. Also by this poet: "Alive" and "What is left"