The nature of grief

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