Poem

On the cusp of sorrow the pink
chrysanthemums fade to sour milk.
A struggling tree's sodden and
mildewing bark peels away.
There is no sanctuary. Weeds
threaten the labryinth.

The loss of you
is like falling in burdock.
A thousand sharp prickles
that won't release from my coat.
I'll wear it through to Spring, still
picking at the barbs.

Come next Fall, I'll retrieve
the coat from its Summer place
and there you'll be still valiantly
clinging to collar or cuff.

I'll pull you out. Secure you
in my pocket. Feel
your sting when I reach
for a tissue to wipe my tears.