Hard to know what to do with this grief,
the branching out, spilling over
when there is sun at my window,
the sway of summer’s raucous green,
a ripple that moves through me — rune
for momentum, forward thoughts, even
this joy I have learned to tend
with obstinate vigor, the faithful
work of loving what threads each day.
But always there is room to be
surprised, to stumble into a memory
that begs for one more scrap.
Sometimes, it is a conversation
I will never enter, two people on the street
sharing a dream of us, a look
on the television that sees through
to where your sorrow couldn’t go.
Then there is now, nameless, fathomless,
rising up to fill my throat.
Grief, I say, come in. Sit down.
I have tea. There is honey. This
will take as long as it takes.