grief is a quiet color -
gardenia who lost her scent -
grief is without an hour -
has no second hand -
the face on a clock, gone.
there is only space
and a vacuous ledge to lean into.
my fear - not of falling
but that i will jump.
when i am a whirling dervish of doing
i can only be one way -
my heart sits on the sidelines
cheering us both on
but would never dare to interrupt.
i come here to be reminded of the color:
magenta fuscia aqua marine blue
a light yellow blouse carrying bones.
flesh and heart held up in the mix.
i come here to celebrate
even though i do not recall the occasion
until I am here
and sometimes not at all.
i sit. i admit. i pull away from the ledge
enough to breath
but not so far as to pretend
it isn't there.
my grief is a yellow tricycle -
empty basket -
under a timber of sun.
my grief is a magical final good-bye
i was not there to make -
with all the busyness
of being busy.
the doing of regret.
they say that is a stage of grieving -
as if recognizing its components
could allow for some dismantling -
but it is intact, i say.
as certain as a two minute timer.
this is how we are given a reprieve.
maybe even forgiveness.
the landmark for time.