Three Shifting Words

The phone still warm against my ear,

a ghost vibration, faint but clear.

'Love you, Mom,' a habit, light,

a distant bell in the fading light.

Then earlier, to the dog, a soft warm 'you',

as his tail thumped, a happy clue.

And last night, to him, a heavier sound,

loaded, almost breaking ground.

Same three words, a worn-out phrase,

through all the tangled, shifting days.

Each time, a different weight, a different need.

A different kind of planting, a different seed.