I wanted to tell the street,
the tar, the grass, the blue,
the morning you died.

The crows, the wasps,
the bees and butterflies
already knew.

The roots of the earth
did not embrace your ashes
nor did the sky,

just the wings that
soared in between the
sweetness, beauty, and grief.

I was wrong to believe this
world to be your only one
or that I would bloom in you.

Your life was a darker fruit
with rains that fell cold
with your sadness and tears.

I could neither make you happy
nor save you— just love where you
rooted and carry you when you fell.

I can neither eat the honey pollinated
in the knot of your stunted tree,
just endure the stings of coming grief,

nor dip my hand into the freezing creek
that floods your lonely roots
without losing my heart.

I just can weep, grieve, try to sleep
on the other side of the bank among
the broken reeds and mud.