Sweet Scented August Night

A sweet scent in the air,
The yellow fluff raising in the heat.
The nearby sounds of many off the magic box.
The aged one sitting calmly
Watching the pretty pictures.
The youngest in her own world of baking.

In a silent second,
The hands truthfully did still.
Without notice, with no warning.
Everything dropped.

A sleeping being,
With a supper full tummy,
Taking a nap.
No movement, no voice.
Just a gentle stillness.

In the night of August
The clock of his stopped its motions.
A body to tired, a mind in tears.
A heart that wanted to go Home.

The aged one's cry, a call that came to late,
The panic of the youngest,
All to late.

With no tubes, no wires, no machines forcing life.
On a sweet scented night,
A quiet boy taken to rest with the angels.
In the quiet way he was, he left.

Here, the clock moves on,
Still with two moving on,
Missing the sound of the third ticker.
But an echo of tears and laughter blend
Making the Earth seem so much more sweeter.