Passage Poems: #15

by Miles Raymer

At the top of the hill of possible grief,
Is where I meet it,
Or it meets me.
We join in mutual expiration,
Breath comes ragged,
If it comes,
At all.

In the haze of the night of possible grief,
Is where we feel it,
A loving ambush, all prepared.
It watches, companionable
Offering the comfort,
That welcomes us down,
Into soil.

On the blank of the page of possible grief,
Is where I see it,
Filling the newly empty spaces.
Abiding, ever-ending absence,
If it comes,
At all.