At First, Grief

At first, grief

is the

blinding

that greets me

when I reach

toward the total eclipse

of a late-August sun

for the one I’ve lost.

The years

drift by—

muzzy—

half-empty bed

abandoned chair,

and left-behind shoes

still waiting

for one more invitation

to whirl beneath

the fairy lights and moonwash

of the eternal dance floor

of bandstands, hopes, and dreams.

Until

grief—

like my soul,

and my refusal to forgive—

softens

into the long, low keening

of a mother whale,

her notes of longing

bobbing along the

salted complexion

of the living sea—

scatter-lit

bottles of mercy

and messages,

each carrying

the same heartfelt refrain:

I miss you more.