The Stages Of Grief

A raw wound, all August long,
both the grave
and the recollection of a name.
In the dusty heat,
holy water and abundant tears
were sprinkled.
Yet the afterlife promised us
failed to heal its
shadowed margins with green.
Come September,
under drought-stricken skies,
only thistles grew.
Necessity finally produced
plastic flowers,
feigned as acceptance itself.
A second burial,
autumn provided the tether
and the tie.
Grief’s fresh outline softened
in the wind’s
ceremonial blanket of leaves.


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