Seasons of grief, part 2
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my body always knows
nothing is more predictable than time,
but calendars do not share any secrets with grief
When the world paints its faces, we remember in silence
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Only this truth:
Your baby lived.
Your baby is loved.
Your baby is remembered.
Seasons of grief: Autumn
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it’s just this time of year
when everything seems to be taunting me
or warning me
or consoling me
Springtime lingering on my lips
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i breathe into the sound of baby birds
calling for their mother
and i am reminded that you never will
not this time of year again
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with heavy hands
i rummaged through her little pink box
to find her Merry Christmas garden flag
and none of it felt merry.
Autumn and her many moods
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she was never staying long in this world –
it’s a kind of truth that only your bones can understand
but this brittle autumn air always chokes me with its taunting anticipation