Grief is a master truth teller. 

On days the sky is feathered
and I sweep the kitchen floor
grief knocks on the door
with yet another of his tales.

Believe me, I have tried to shut the door tight
upon recognizing Grief’s lined face.
Only to find him creeping in through
the unlocked backdoor
or the curtainless window.

We mostly go our separate ways,
but when he needs to be seen
I have learned to let him in.

We courtly nod at each other,
I make tea and we sit
at the table with the floral tablecloth
tattered by our time together.

There is not much left to talk about
after all these years.
Grief has become somewhat of a friend.

My vision is blurry with
so many shared tears.
And when I look him in the eyes
I remember all the pain caused
by the life taken.

Eventually Grief loosens his grip,
puts down the tea cup,
on it a thorny rose faded by time.
And as he stands up to leave
he says: Until next time, old friend.

photo by Jupp Mueller