Grief

A stone stands
in the throat of the stream,
asleep in the sun.
The stream falls at its feet
—it breaks like a storm,
like a hopeless wife
assailing at long last
with tears and wailing
the statue of her sleeping husband.

The stream buries
its broken face
in dark, folded arms
and lurches on.
It’s spring—
the stream is young,

it runs on its own heels
a world of days
born, like wheat, in Heaven.

Summer comes.
The stream is thin,
and the hard light sees
to its bottom, throwing copper shadows
that tan the stones
like an old man’s hands.
And in August will see
a stream-bed of stones
flowing away.