a teardrop into
puddles,
a breeze become
slow breath,
the sigh into one’s
heavy hands
a whisper shy
of death.
grief
when winter
folds
and
spring behaves
i’ll be
at your door
but not a teardrop
before
you emerge from
grave.
often, late
at night
i wait for you in
the corner of
my bed
as though you’ll
show
and guide me
by the hand
over to an open
window
to stare down
the moon together,
although i know
better.
on the tip of
dire news
i watched
branches bend
as if accommodating
fate’s harsh
winds.
a pill for
grief
rests on a table,
in a cup,
poured into
a hand
in the center of
a room
where no one feels
a thing.
met you in the
waiting
room,
where that big hand
never moves
and our tears don’t
run anymore
four drained
eyes
aimed at the
floor.
sorrow takes
a bow
so dear griever
can breathe
in fresh night
which carries upon it
the desire to heal
beyond.
supple hand on a
shoulder
unsettles the
mourner
wishing he felt comfort
by touch
in these moments
where rawness
reigns.
i’ve softened
little
since the
news
you left before
your time,
but have settled
into the new
“normal“
and sense you
within me
now.
grief
holds crouched
like child frozen
in her own
shadow,
waiting for the
warmth of
human
light
to thaw her
heart.
hands in the garden 
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