Mothering Sunday

In our past, we mostly spoke in vast, icy silences --
Our arms crossed on opposite sides of a
Desolate glacier of a dining room table.

In other times our platitudes filled up the air
Like a tightly packed attic, of no consequence,
Except to satisfy bittersweet pangs of nostalgia.

We live now separated by a pallid wall of absence and loss,
Numbed longing more closely resembling
A once taut & pitched sail, sagging in the doldrums.