Musings #13


Bleeding hearts splay bent,

their stems limp like seaweed,

tulips buried in the snow.

Still, the hard ground softens,

fear of drought subsides.

He remembers what I have said –

looks for a gift in his brother’s death

hoping it was suicide,

finding a certain comfort

in thinking this a choice.

Dear man, there is no escape

from grief. The gifts arrive late

and only after the heart breaks.

Salt pours into the wide

eye of ocean.

Deliberate leap or swept below,

that his brother knew this

a near-stranger could tell

from the way his face cracked

open when he smiled.