A Practiced Sorrow

Written by: Rickie Elpusan

You’re dressed in gray, and
tattered like the clouds
that hover above you.

Frozen
with the look of a person
who knows of his own
approaching death.

Like the willow that cradles 
dawn's mist of unwept tears—
a practiced sorrow,
earned from decades of watching 
the slow meandering river,
as it draws closer, 
and the banks weather and fall.