for the comfort of newborn green,
but underneath the leafless cherry blossom tree
there are bowls of tea for the ones who aren't here.
That last morning, you woke me up when the light from the alarm clock was brighter than the sky outside. It didn’t bother me because I knew the clock had been winding down since January of last year, when I prayed that you’d see one last snow fall. You got your snow. You got your week by the sea. You played with the children you loved. Earlier this week you even got steak. So when I heard you whimper during the morning shift (Dad always takes the night shift) I lay down next to you. I rubbed your back until you felt better. And together we watched the sky lighten, waiting for Dad to get up and so we could that last morning walk together.
Song Choice: Cracker Jack by Dolly Parton
Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to the Friday Writings Prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. It was written for my sweet boy Kit, who crossed the rainbow bridge last Friday. I am grateful that our whole family was able to be in the room when it was time to say goodbye.
I often think about the still-born spring, three years ago, when it seemed like nothing would ever grow again—not even in our woods. The woods were lost girl met lost girl, years and years ago. We decided that it was safest to believe in magic to find the way through. We lifted moss-colored words from the banks of our creek to line our path and tucked stories into trees.
I wonder if the trees notice you are gone, when I go to pick up scraps of memories caught in the brambles by the creek. I wonder what the creek thinks when I try to weave those scraps into something recognizable, something that makes sense. Spring green should not be the color of grief, but even now, in the spaces where growth is undeniable, spring always arrives late for me.
Song choice: Gavi's Song by Lindsey Stirling
Liner notes for this Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storyteller United's Friday Writings Prompt, In Memoriam.
I have to kiss the world
twice as hard now.
I have to feel the weight
of each leg of every butterfly
that chooses to alight on my skin.
I have to drench myself
in the feel of moss
and twilight colors
over and over again
to make my heart full and heavy
with all the world’s subtle delights
to outweigh the grief it carries.
Song Choice: Nature Boy covered by Aurora
Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Friday Writing's Prompt at Poets and Storytellers United. It asked us to use a cliché in an unusual way.
Some memories
are sharp enough to cut
off my breath,
leaving me
gasping
like a fish
who just wants
her ocean
back.
Song Choice: Breaking Down by Florence + the Machine
Liner Notes for this Groove: I know I'm getting serious about a new writing project when I start writing poetry in the voices of my characters. Rina has a some serious inner demons to face (and several fae beings are just complicating the situation). But I'm deep into the super ugly rough first draft and enjoying getting to know her world.
This poem is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings prompt, Writing About Writing.
The thing about grief
is it’s more than the moment of impact.
It's also the shockwaves
after the asteroid hits your world.
It’s the cracking
along the fault lines
breaking apart continents.
It’s respecting the rage of the underground rivers
racing madly where you hoped
there might be gold, or at least iron
enough to try to make steel.
It’s the near drowning
in dozens of deep wells of resentment
before you find any sign
of a reservoir of grace.
It’s the exhaustion
in the mental cyclones
of forgetting and remembering,
wondering which is more painful.
It is also knowing
that even if every breath
I take ever after
is ragged and choked
there is something in me
that wants to keep breathing.