Poetry falls out of grief on a clear day
with an invitation, a single thread
leading back to truth you hardly remember, for good reason.
Woven in will be the moments
you couldn’t hold at the time,
so dense were they with the threat of loss
and need to shoulder your life regardless.
Then there they’ll be,
perfect snapshots blooming
in your hands with an honesty you crave
but can only reach with effort.
(too often you talk yourself away from that edge)
A poem is born when you slow down,
ease into the depths of your experience,
step away from level ground and fly.
My mom's been gone a little over three years. There are many poems still unwritten.