You do not come gently to nudge my grief.
You hover like a sinister monster waiting
For my sadness to uncover itself.
And standing in front of it,
You try to loom
As if the grief itself is your nemesis.
You hold back and push forward
At the same time.
Your quivering questioning of what's
Yet to come
Is all you think you need to petrify
This fleshly body and keep it from
Whatever becoming is in store for it.
Yet, even in the melancholy
There grows an anticipation
Of the beauty that lies beyond
The story fear tells;
Igniting wonder and opening to
Vast chasms of possibility —
Perhaps even of joy.