I sit on the sofa,
alone in the sunroom,
stirring a cup of mocha-coffee,
Soon it turns cold.
Your mother’s quilt, an heirloom
pulled off our bed,
wraps my shoulders.
The corner touching my cheek
is soaked in wild grief,
bleak as blackened
marigolds and frozen thistles.
A staccato crunch announces
our cat, Archibald.
He leaps on my lap with a black-wing
bloody goldfinch in his teeth
that he refuses to share
with our Yorkie who yaps and gives chase.
The earlier order–coffee,
A small meteor explodes: Your rocking
chair falls, dust motes fly,
book chapters end
unfinished, alphabets around the world
spill and scatter. Unaware
of your death, dog,
cat, dying bird–even dust motes
and coffee gone cold–dare
to continue their course:
Burnt toast lingers on my tongue, bitter
as unuttered words.
4 thoughts on “Early Morning. Again”
So good. I can feel your pain. Thank you for sharing
What a magnificent expression of grief!
Such a description of profound grief. My husband of 40 years died May 10…I tried to put the wet laundry in the pantry today, found the
ice cream in the refrigerator…may you find peace in the challenge of
gut-wrenching grief and be safe in this pandemic…
Wonderful poem! Powerful imagery and wonderful use of sound within the poem. Thank you for sharing this.