The dance of grief,
between a lot of you,
and a little of me.

What’s the point of this dance?
The soulless wave,
the rhythmless step,
and the pointless music.

Here we round a circle,
and make a little of this dance,
suffer from same pain,
deal with different of grief.

She gave a lot to the whole lot of you,
each and unique,
she made this dance,
which we called grief.

She left…
She left and dance for the lot of you,
and the much for me.

She mourned her loss
Day and night and
Her love for him a burning light and
Now buried deep beneath the sod
And gone forever now
He sleeps beloved of God.

Your fire so bright,
it takes me in.
Your warmth so tender,
it burns me within.

Heard many warnings,
still I fall.
And I’d fall again,
no regrets.

For this is where I belong.

You're not the kind of flower
People pluck and put into their hair
You're the kind of flower
People can’t bring themselves to pluck
And instead water it with their water bottle
A flower that deserves to bloom
And grow

A flower I dared not pluck -
out of love for your radiance,  
out of fear of your silent ache,  
out of care for your unfolding,  
out of awe for the life in you.  

The thought of your wither  
was a storm I could not weather;  
so I let you be, untouched,
praying you would bloom,
forever reaching toward the sun.

Letting you bloom was my wish,
but when the storms came too strong,
you decided to wither away,
because the weight of the world,
felt heavier than your light.

Holding the memory of your petals,
I wonder, if my hands, though gentle,
could have held you together or,
if the storms were always destined
to take you back to the earth so soon.