Tag Archives: grief

Half Empty

The pond is full now,
overflowing from the weekend rain.
The wind is lapping
the water to the edge,
just under the honeysuckle.

There was a path and small landing there, not two days ago.
A place just near the waters edge, protected from the afternoon sun.
On other days, we’d stretch out and cast lines towards the center,
and let the bobbers sit.

I always wanted to pull the lines closer,
but you were content
to let it stay
subject to the breeze
and what lay just under the surface.

Let the fish come to you.

The bluegill always skirted the shore,
playfully darting up and back,
expecting breadcrumbs.

But you and I never fed them.

The wind in the brush reminds me
that the landing is now covered.
I’ll leave, but will return tomorrow.

Yet, even when the water recedes,
it will never be the same.

Grasping

In that moment before grief
When you have a hold on something
-it could be anything-
maybe carrots,
or a sheet of paper,
or pencil.
You release your grip in an instant.
Time does not continue,
yet the object falls away.

Not like dropping a ball,
with a child’s anticipation of return.
Neither as with a moment of revelation,
or when gasps follow a feverish plea
for more.

It is different.

It is a moment we cannot predict,
unable to stage a photograph
of the way the touch vanishes
and grasp fails,
yet the burden of loss enfolds.