Poem · Poetry

A Fine Coat

Grief is a tailor.

Each garment made to suit,

buttons attached each year,

hems altered,

seams made strong by

threads of time,

pockets lined with truth.

 

Grief takes threads of every color

in and out.

Rage-red borders blend

flecks of gold.

It makes a fine coat

so soft to the touch.

 

How surprising.

This linen is a close friend

worn to ragged shreds,

worn to the bone.

Death is a companion

with us since birth.

 

There is no void, only Death,

swaddling us, yet

taking us little by little.

For this we grieve.

One day a babe greeting us

from the womb with tears,

and later, sharing tears for our passing.

 

We are dressed in Grief,

tailored memories of

laughter and sorrow;

joy and despair;

guilt woven into forgiveness;

grief into love.

Why do we fear?

We are comforted by this lavish coat.

 

Grief is a tailor

hired at birth

to clothe our lives,

worn to tatters with threads

left to line our souls.

 

(This poem is a revision of Grief: A Weaver, which I published on WordPress in June 2017.)

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: Pixabay.com

Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry

River Grass at Summer’s End

Seedlings in spring,

tall grasses in summer sun,

we scan life on the lapping currents

at our river’s edge.

 

Clinging to trees, cicadas call out an endless shrill.

Water striders mate and die. Widow Skimmers dance

on the waves. A turtle basks on a dead limb

caught in a root wad along our bank. An eagle keeps watch

from a lofty sycamore perch.

 

Clouds darken the face of the sun. A kayak floats

downstream in shadows. A warm gust lifts and sways us

on the shore, and we wave at the paddler drifting by.

 

The paddler succumbs to rain. The wind stirs wakes as

an Asian Carp pounds into the boat. The beaver

makes it to shore first in the storm. The river bank is

summer’s bed of sand at our roots.

 

In the bluster of early autumn, we bear our seeds at water’s edge.

They scatter like startled bees in the falling light.

Our ravaged arms reach for the falling light at dusk.

The glassy river reflects our age as colors fade.

Our stems bend, thirsty for noon.

 

This Poem is a revision of “Summer’s End”, which I put up on August 31, 2019.

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: “Sunset on Missouri River” ©Dierik Leonhard