The sorrow of a soul cannot be rushed,
no more than the sun can be cajoled
to early rise.
When a lover passes on,
Grief takes a moment
to open her arms,
like a mother
with a child,
waking you slowly.
Grief visits you in waves,
washes you in clouds of memory,
each one shining and alone,
passing by as if you dreamed them.
A year and a half is the end of the sad story,
all psychiatrists say - by then
it's nearly over and Grief no longer
Ah, you are not crazy if you still mourn -
the sun will rise,
this too shall pass,
Grief does move on.