To Grief
What do I call this grief, if not love?
And what do I call grief when it is no longer
enough of a word to bear the weight of sadness
that brings me to my knees? When sleep does not ease
the weariness of bereavement and winter’s chill
does not leave these weakening bones? When everything
I was, I am no more; when loss has worn through this
forlorn body; when each new day does not bring hope
but ceaseless ache? What do I call this grief, if not
love — once held in arms now carried in heart; a love
so abundant it can’t remain here where I mourn
but falls from these tears to soften earth and bless this
dirt. I will plant love here where it will grow, knowing
I will never get over this, but I will get through.
That soon this tree will bear shade; proof that winter’s
relief can be found in Spring and time will bring its
own kind of healing. That life will begin again
and love will always remain beyond the pain
of this grief. Never-ending love; rest in peace.
