A Harrowing Grief

Hills speak of a weathering, each lays bare an allegory of bereavement. Grief has its own inward milling. What once was the high pulse of rapture is now the nag of a heartbeat sheathed like a stone in a shoe. When you try to name the hurt, objectify its presence, it turns into a dog, a child, a perfect stranger, a place lost or a place that found you lost and there it sets a table and chair before you so you can write from that place to explain the curling vine of your sorrow before it became a smooth worn pebble you now chafe and harrow with threadbare fingers.