Meditation on an empty field

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.

5 thoughts on “Meditation on an empty field

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