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.
Grief – beautiful. I imagine my father, who just lost my mother after 63 years of marriage – feeling this very emptiness and longing for touch.