Tag Archives: grief
There was that day you wore your hair in pigtails. You were thirteen. Pigtails and a pale blue summer dress. I think the dress was new. My mother had died three days earlier. You and I … Continue reading
How quickly we forget the nearness of grief, and remember, with rated thorns, a past nettled to braid.
This is how I grieve– words, pearlescent to glean, and bare, poured, like so much light, on petals bruised by touch and Beauty rare.
To perish, gently, in a siege of love, every last wildflower the smiling face of a memory, basking, as you cede to the cradle of warm dream.
Flowers pale into this storm but do not fade, to cede, in tune, as grievous winds sculpt a fierce bloom, begging a Garden’s fate.
Roses near to grief, how petals kiss death softly, then fall, just because.
Pale girl’s greenest grief, fleeced by soft seedless petals– Hands blooming to freeze.
Drizzle of clear beads, perfect climate for daybreak– Silence braids our grief.
Moonlight serenade, every autumn the same song– Grief resets its course.
She has held this position of constant sorrow for millennia, ennobling the grief of sundered hearts too human to bear openly.