There is a grief that grieves before it is time to grieve.
You know it's because love precedes it. You hold the beloved's
face in your hands and it is both a morning greeting and a prayer
you are beginning to compose. There is weak light spilling
through the blinds, after a week of damp and rain and flood.
The tree outside your window is still fully dressed in green,
though its sleeves are beginning to slowly unravel. Where
have the noisy crows of summer gone? And yet you do not
miss them, their sombre coats, their sharp punctuation
of the air. Of course there is nothing in the world in your
control. Your shadow is longest in the morning and shortest
at noon; it only seems invisible at night. You can't outrun
your shadow. Somehow you know, whatever is taken
from you can still be called to, can still answer.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
