Phantom Limbs

The thing about dying, is
the gaping hole that's left
behind.  Aching to be filled,
over time, a little at a time,

memories, pictures, poems,
shirts that smell like you,
begin to make home there
and the ones who loved you even

smile again . . . remembering . . . still loving. . . .
Then something sacred happens;
hope and love, slow-dancing together, mend
the hole, making strong, faith in eternity.

But nothing can help the arms.
They still need to feel
what they used to hold.  Faith does nothing
to console them.  They ache.