For You…

 

Each time we meet,

that specific grief

and I,

in some unexpected

curl of psyche,

it is always,

ever,

and again,

as if for the first time.

Like the rasp of thorn

or briar on skin

presumed whole,

unmarred,

unbroken —

fresh surge of pain;

scarlet bright.

When we meet,

my grief and I,

old friends reunited,

we embrace –

awkwardly,

so carefully –

and, as one,

we weep.

 

 

— C.Birde, 4/20