Meditation on an empty field
The winter field’s as many colors as kinds of loss.
It gets no bigger but grows every year.
There’s still sweet green, scuffed gold, brown verging
On yellow. Things beneath with code for new color.
Where the digging root took deep hold, maple and oak:
Identifying grief is like recognizing trees in winter
In this season of missing. Look closely.
There are months to learn them all. The wind
through this one is my name, your voice.