GRIEF, HE TOLD HER

is the exhale
of love,
(the ache of breathing)
waking up to
your friend still gone
from this earth,
the living air,
unreachable touch.

∼∼∼

WHITE EGRET AND I

A bouquet
of wing and light
lands at water’s edge,
waits
for some sliver of movement
from the pond.

Her neck is tall in watchfulness.
Her patience, long.
Already, I dart
to a different
thought.

Image: White Carnation by alcidesota@yahoo.com via Flickr.

This post originally appeared on The First Day.