“One’s first appreciation is a sense that the creation is still going on, that the creative forces are as great today as they have ever been, and that tomorrow’s morning will be as heroic as any of the world.” ~ Henry Beston

Society served me platitudes and stared me down,
Eyes expectant with time frames.

Grief—get over it.

Even a writer can’t weave words to wipe out grief.

But a woman in love? She can cry
And howl to the moon how much
She misses her beloved,
Letting tears cleanse
Every cell of heartbreak.

That’s what I did,
What I’ve done,
The way I deal
With his death.

Nobody sets the terms for my
Grief, any more than they
Arranged the parameters of
Our Love.

Do you see me rising, laughing,
Singing? Maybe not.
Because you were looking
For that yesterday.

Believe me, so was I.

At the same time, I laid myself bare
For the divine organic healing, the
Way I did for
His Touch.

All the words in the world can’t make a woman
Love a man she doesn’t.
Or shake her out of
Grief’s Fire.

I had to fly, swim, crawl,
And allow the clay of my
Soul to take on a
New Shape.

Which I still don’t recognize.

I lean into the new
Foreign familiar:
My old friend, Joy.

She catches me in the morning.
There’s a smile in my voice,
A lightness in my body.

It’s pure, organic, real,
The divine return
To Life.

Sure, darkness still seduces,
But I’m no longer trapped.

In fact, Joy brought
A friend to this party.
His name is Freedom.
He’s kind of hot.