Grief 

I feel
A brittle sorrow. 
Every time
I try to brush against it,
More crumbles
Into my hand
And I find myself carrying
More than I had intended.

Grief II

More and more, 
As the pieces of grief
Crumble off into my hands,
It feels less like
A sharp pain,
Fresh and new and
Dripping with shock,
And more like a bruise;
Not quite forgotten,
But almost offensive
In the amount of pain
It still inflicts. 

Grief III

It’s the grief that binds us;
    The burning eyes,
    The clenched jaws,
    And, maybe most of all,
    The closing throat,
        Stiff and painful
        Against the sobs. 

It’s always, always, 
In the songs that flow through windows,
In strong, carrying voices,
In the soft piano
And the harsh brasses.

Grief IV

The sun hasn’t risen yet 
And still, 
The weight on my wrist
Is sorely felt when gone. 

How fitting,
Since I feel his absence now
More acutely than I ever have

Grief V

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
    — Immortality, Clare Harner Lyon (1909-1977)

I am in the flight of birds
And twinkling snow
In the sky at dawn
And the way the wind blows 
In the whisper of rivers
And crumbling stone
Wherever you look;
You are not alone.