After Ada Limon
On the black wet branches of a sycamore, grief waits for me with the last few clinging burnt umber leaves.
Rain, black blankets, wind-whipped worm into the scarred wounds of me. Her great absence present.
Waiting for the shift, in fall, like stinging nettles’ persistence call, being still is vulnerable and exposed.
Yet suffering is all around when I choose to be part of the world. Privilege I acknowledge and push against.
All this will pass. Time playing through space. Illinear like this journey of grief on the black wet branches of a sycamore tree.