You’re reading Good Grief’s Sunday Series.
We’re Back! We’ve missed you. To make up for our a two week pause, we’re coming at you this week with two posts, with a poem from each of us. Enjoy!
We snaked through old-growth douglas firs, quiet hours of mourning. A slant of light, moss, jigsaw shadows, tangled-root-trip-hazards. Step on, step on centuries, hollow ground: cold underbelly of anything. Lion’s-mane light stretching to next year: spongy, yielding. He was a shelf-full of antiques on a Saturday, gluttonous, slippery, rusted teapot, kettle black, nice to look at, a fist- ful of snow in my palm. Forest, thick with scent, needs oxygen, oxytocin. Induced abortion, dropping seeds, hollow underbelly.