Seasons of Grief
- Summer
binds my scar of ache
with an embrace of shade.
I pull it like a shroud
over my head to veil
my soundless lips
counting each
breath.
- Autumn
wanders continents,
tucks me into damp
corners. The wind finds me
tossed and shrunken, pressed
against a soul-etched stone wall.
I burrow my fears
in a tumble of doubts
torn from the limb.
III. Winter
empties socks
from your drawer like stones.
I pitch them at the night sky.
The pocked moon answers
with a blessing over bleached snow
cleansing your grave.
- Spring
watches me pluck a petal
to flow downstream and fade—
a fleck of nature to remind me
I can move earth
but I cannot bring back
a speck of your dust.
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