Mourning Walks

Drift in golden longing  

Fingers out  

In the bellows of this dying state  

The sounds of bedded sobbing are  

Distant now,   

Just memory  

Filled with autumn's decay  


Where the rivers widen 

goodbyes take longer 

Ghosts come in many forms:  

In the  crow’s song,  the  whispered  tumbling  of leaves,  

The rasp of trees  

"Idleness is the enemy of the soul,” they say  

In blustery howls  

In frayed grace  


It’s windy after death 

As if all this remembrance   

needs to be swept clean  

Clarity comes  

On the stillest days  

The sky a bold blue mirror  

In the ache of standing up