Grief goes wild as it sits in the branches of trees —
the ones that bend so gracefully but do not break.

The waters of grief swell rivers, lakes, and ponds,
bursting their boundaries, flooding empty fields.

Grief gnaws at old bones of contention, the ones
left when conversation and confrontation ended.

The wildflowers of grief grow and grow, but will
never refill vases inside on the dining room table.

Grief runs down wet faces and ruddied cheeks as
we seek to sop the flow of overwhelming regrets.

Jam jars filled with portions of ashes sit on mantles
or bookcases, waiting for their return to the earth.

That’s the work of those of us left behind — to bide
our time, till we are ready to accept — and release.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne