A Poem I'm Not Prepared to Write, for Chandra

Neha, I'm wondering if you could help me. See, I met your mother, Chandra, the other day at the farmer's market—she's very beautiful, so I can only imagine you... I was writing my poems, and she told me that she, too, is a poet (I find poets flutter to each other like moths to a light) She told me she wanted a poem for her daughter, whom she loves very much, whom she misses very much. She told me your name was Neha, and that you are not in this world anymore. She asked me to write to you, on her behalf To let you know that she misses you. I love when a person asks me to write a poem for someone they love, but, oh, Neha, how could I find the words to do justice to so much, pain, to so great a loss, to the love of a mother that transcends mere life, that I know you must feel the awful power of from beyond the too short day we are given to make dance and song, from beyond the short reach of the sun's limited light? I can only wonder, amazed that your mother would ask this of me—for who am I? But... I trust her, Neha. I have faith in her wisdom. And so, as her vessel, her messenger for love, I say again—and I know you will read this: Neha, your mother loves you and misses you. so very much.