The shape of
heavy tears
streaking down,
earthwards,
journeying to
find our loved ones
faces, again
The shape of
trembling lips
the very moment
we recall their
forevermore absence
as we write the date,
on this day
their birthday
The shape of the
book on the shelf
in the store,
the book he’d love,
the one about airliners;
the book I wrench from
my hand,
trancelike remembering
I cannot gift it to my
late father
We never know which shape
our grief may take
until we feel it
grabbing firm our heart,
rendering us
lost, unanchored, adrift.
Empty.
Only then will the
shapeshifting end.
a wonderful piece. . .thank you!