At the table, discussing
Those we’ve lost to time
And the cancers of living,
While outside
The rain’s long green grief
Falls over my woodlot
Like the tears of God
Grieving what we were
Who we are
What we’ve become.
The wind’s chrism cloths
Then soak up the water
But grief grips the leaves
Slowly dripping
In those tender drops
That fall softly from your eyes.