There is not one day
There is not one way in which
I am not altered.
There is a quiet breaking
of the heart, a loss of any
hardness in peering into oneself.
It is a secret place, something held
closely only with the
presence of grief.
Somewhere only I can visit.
The secret garden behind a wall; I knew as a child.
There is an intense knowledge in its contents.
Memories and experience, that belong only to me.
I can awake.
I know grief.
I can move through it.
I can navigate the thick hanging ivy and the nettles
secluded behind the wall.
When I describe the agony
and receive nothing more than a pithy acknowledgment.
It is me. It is my song.
It is a transcending human struggle,
To love and grieve so unapologetically.
A flower blooms every spring.