How long would our poem be?How much would it weigh?The first verse would be yours, of course−Age before beauty, you'd say.You would not rush so much as crest,a wave that spreads and breaksacross the eyes and ears to fillsome deeper, inner space.The next verse would be mine,self-conscious, yes, it's true,and full of fits and startsbut bits of music too.Would we share some lines then, just we two?Here's a place for my words;here, only yours will do,And would it matter, really,after all is said and done,who made which piece of glory?Who, this moon? Who, that sun?The pen drops from my hand,but there's still more to say.So I must write our final line,which is simplystay.
Louise Hawes, The Language of Stars
grief, poem, stay