when i am holding nothing & holding everything

31.

if grief has gifts, i am keeping them all because the earth is hollow and takes too much - [04.29.26]

if there are gifts of grief,
they are like beautiful vases shattered on the ground,
they only ever hold water when you cup them in your hands under rain,
they once held flowers years ago, but clearly they never will again
and to everyone else they are another broken thing you should not carry any more
they will try to snatch these pieces of pottery out of your hands and tell you
it's time to let go, but they don't really know about what you're holding
or how the faint lines at the rim remind you of the sunrise and
how you have to hold on to every sign of the sun, when the world is dark
if you're going to make it through the night, so you can't let go,
because these little pieces of jagged clay
are hands in your hands, and voice for your words,
and little memories that will never be whole again,
but they're yours, greedily-brokenly yours all yours,
and they remind you of the sun
so you're not letting go.

32.

letters to you - [04.29.26]

sometimes in my dreams,
it is not you that died, but me -
and i am slipping quietly around the sun,
across the iridescent sky, to whisper i love you
in the way the morning breaks through the clouds,
in the way the river carries on across the rocks,
in the way the bird flies straight into heaven and doesn't look back
and i don't have to wonder if you know

33.

the only hope i hold more tightly - [04.30.26]

one day, this earth will drown,
and with it all that’s written here – even driftwood
one day sinks, and even grief one day becomes
like ash to the sea, the years of glass under my skin
will be worn smooth by then i’m sure, heavy-still, but only
for the one who holds it all, and somedays the weight will become
familiar, comfortable almost, like the weight of my own bones,
and some people will think it’s just stained glass shining through underneath.

but we will know, you and i. and on that day, when the earth drowns,
every wounded part will be quilted into something warmer,
every plucked feather will emerge into strong wings, and
that day your name will be first upon my lips, with lullabies
i wrote along the way, and poetry i have saved for you to hear,
i will meet you again between wherever lies between the night
and all the heavens. and then, only then, death shall be no more.