turning down through it’s black water
to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else.
The Well of Grief
a simple bottle of shells,
it has held me for years.
it has held years for me.
In this large, stormy cloud is also hidden:
the apple tree,
coffee on the deck,
guitars I bought –
not for me –
the songs I couldn’t sing for you,
the losses I couldn’t prepare for,
the love I couldn’t earn,
the lessons I have learned,
more than a few, broken pieces
of my soul
mending as the salt falls,
making room for something new,
more must be felt,
but I know,
as spring comes to April,
sun breaks through and finds room
to grow some new flowers
in my heart
the color of gratitude,
the color of morning.
Bees still buzz quietly
but it is the color of letting go.
The color of something inside you.
An eye opens, and closes.
A reckoning, even as leaves fall:
not subtracting, but adding up.
Seed pods lift their empty hands
and blacken, become still.
Trees tunnel down into themselves.
Garden plants become song.
They are not dying, not giving up.
They are getting ready for something new.
A day also otherwise,
as even mourning bears joy,
and the beginning of autumn here
signals in the Southern Hemisphere,
where also our beloved live,
Spring’s splendid revival.