What song to sing in tired times as now
when new-sprung shoots are crushed beneath the heels
of time, before they grow? Blossom snipped low
by fate’s callous blade. How that sorrow feels
like opening to the pain of the world.
Wholed by a light at the snuff of your day,
the end to a story impeccably told.
Though now we must trudge an opposite way
stay close to us. The ones we love who’ve gone
on to glory, or horror, or nothing—all
linked, ever in memory. Names etched in bone,
or page, or slates of stone on graveyard sprawl.
Yes, grief is a sored horse that bucks and hurts,
yet we tug the reins and survive the worst.