If time is a healer
Why has nothing changed?
I feel the pain of your loss
Like it happened yesterday.
If time is a healer
Why does it feel worse?
Another day without you
On this lonely earth.
Time is not a healer.
When you took your last breath
The clock stopped ticking
The very moment you left.

A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.

Tell me, which is harder.
Waiting for something you know will never be in your cards,
or having to come with the terms that it will never happen.