In grief
there were slow afternoons
and swampy mid-day mornings of discombobulation
there was waking with a leaden, burning heart
and wondering why nature invented whimpering
I watched myself as griever, as walker, as the woman who
put brie on crackers and re-boiled water in the kettle five times
If there is a “she” to observe in grief,
it must mean not every part of me was her!
Who was the watcher of that griever?
The writer,
the steely-eyed notetaker of life,
the warm poet of hard mornings
the humming scribe of candlelight hours
the shower singer, composer of lines good and sad
The writer never left me alone or exiled in grief
if there was a weeping HER
and a writing SHE
that had to mean, I had company.
Reinekke Lengelle
7 May 2020
