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.