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.
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