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Posts Tagged ‘grief’

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red love heart christmas

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When we hurt,

grief wants nothing more

than to light a candle

and sit with us

in our keening.

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If we look it in the eye

we’ll see

its soft depth

as it holds us tenderly

to the flame.

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And when we’re ready

we’ll hold it in return

and watch the spiral

of warm smoke

rise to the sky.

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© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Photo from Pixabay

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New-fallen

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I still remember

your winter mourning

when you were dark-empty

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and I reached

through the ether

and wrapped my arms

around your shadow

tasting your hard tears

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and you stood taller than light

with grief,

new-fallen and noble

as the snow.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Late at night

after she washes her face

and slips from her dress

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she becomes a teardrop

quaking with grief

on the tip of God’s tongue,

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but there —

see how the light

shines through.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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cats carved by Arlie

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It was your favorite book,

the one with Goldbug*

hidden in every picture.

You’d turn the pages

and find him peeking

from the window of a car

or riding in the back

of a fire truck.

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When you grew up

you had your own cars and trucks

and never failed to wave

and beep your horn

when you drove away.

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A year ago today

you left this realm

but you are not gone.

I feel you standing next to me

as I water the grape ivy.

Your wind chime rings

when the air is perfectly still.

The little wooden cats

you carved for me

change position during the night.

Something invisible

tickles my arm.

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You tell me in a dream

not to be sad

and you wave at me

from the windows of everywhere.

I wave back

and turn another page.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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* from Richard Scarry’s – Cars and Trucks and Things that Go

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Cats carved by my late son, Arlie, when he was 8 or 9.

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Grief does not tip-toe

it comes

on lead feet

leaving deep prints

in the earth

to collect our tears

and send them over-flowing

to the stream

that joins all sorrow

winding to the sea.

And in the walk-about

where we are left to keen

wildflowers bloom around

the weeping willow tree.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Corner

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She pouts in a corner

it seems

the gods play rough

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at times

crushing her breath

into a knot

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pulling her head-first

through a barrel

of tear-salt

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staining her face

with keens

shoulders wracked

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it should have been me

I’m old

he was young.

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She folds

into a corner

when the gods play rough.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

 

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The lights blow out

and the room grows

starkly quiet

in the dark

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except for the drip

drip

dripping

of a faucet and

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those thoughts

she had ignored

now howling

like the wild

of the wind.

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©  2015, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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