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Sodden
Upon a peak made bald by icy scour,
Enfolded in the zephyrs' coats of rime,
before the sunlight's feeble last half-hour,
I contemplate, while calculating prime,
a breath of words that mist an airy mark,
a countenance distilled into a stream,
a self-made arrow's suicidal arc
that pierces the reflection of a dream
of rolling thunder running up the shore
of sand escaping from a pinch-waist glass
of port not drunk behind a slamming door
but with a solemn toast, "These times will pass",
and thus unfold a crumpled, cooling self
that sought to ossify upon a shelf.
A friend once told me that "we cannot chart another's feelings about grief in degrees or values. Grief is a part of our emotional self and how we experience it is ours alone". So I know of no way, even with personal experience, of guiding those individuals so affected through that icy place. But if it helps, I...we, all stand beside you to hold you upright, that you may eventually find a way to "unfold" yourself from the grip of grief into the cold contentment of mourning. My heart is with you all.
Marc
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