GRIEF

By Grace Bizzarro

Grief comes with a casket and baskets of flowers laying on the ground

in a cemetery weary of winter and shed tears.

It comes when laughter ceases and hands that once held yours grow cold.

It comes on gray days when the pungent smells of stew for two

no longer waft on air to stir your senses.

It comes between linen sheets in a cold bed where the warmth

of an embrace and a kiss used to bid you good night.

It comes on Sunday mornings with the Times.

Shared breakfast, the interchange of ideas and gentle disagreements

are no longer possible.

Grief comes to you with all these memories and stays and stays.

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