Grief is…..(Muriel Allingham)

The thing with feathers is grief, it

rises on lofty currents, before

gliding through tomorrow’s womb.

It is a thing of mathematical characteristics, it

can be mapped and charted;

the whole equalling the sum of parts, its

diagram; a view of sacred geometry. 

And grief is the thing of words,

stripping each phrase for export, able to

fight the theatrical battle against language, and

be the bedfellow of poetry. 

Grief is the thing bearing leaves; like

the mighty oak, its

season stilled by December’s cull, and

spring’s breath of birth travels a predictable course.

Grief is the thing of romance, the

songs of unrequited love, of

beauty through curtains of lace, it

holds its masters in temptation, and

wilts even the most tormented heart.

Grief knows ill-fated companionship, as

the wretched beast that

cooks the books, and

storms the castle—it

sits in evening light, and

turns the sheets to ice. 

But it is the thing I live with,

it carves its notes upon my soul,

it writes my chapters, and

wrestles me home—grief is

the thing with feathers, so

airy, so faint, so eternal.