Secret Discipline of Mourning
There was a season
before the diagnosis
when we lived in the
rearview mirror for a time,
traversing the archives
of a life well-lived.
Suspended, it seemed
in hollyhock blossom recollection
shared around the kitchen table,
digested with affirmation and love.
A premonition perhaps
of what was to come—
in your transient
clay body of light.
And my sensible resistance,
wanting to hold on
to all of you—
the future you.
But there was no
other way it could be,
this karmic covenant
of our loving.
Stories now released
upon the wind,
told in pink-hued
whispers of light,
on wings of rosemary.
Remembered now only
in the secret discipline
of mourning.
From The Marvelous Contentment of Belonging: Poetry, Prose and Prompts for Navigating Grief by Darci Meyers**
