Mourning Rises

Light filters through the blinds
and catches the tears on my fingertips.
Writhing in bed between flannel sheets;
I settle and sigh and stare at the wall--
nothing can be done.
So I let go and let the morning ease
and I rise and float and hope.

The turkeys outside my window
cry to one another.
I shoot two with my red rider
and laugh as they fly.
I do a skittle-dance
but the grief still settles
like the fog on the tips of trees
and I fade back to bed.

Mist on the lake passes away
and I find new purpose
in cheese quesadillas.
"Here I am," I cry to the mountain
and the hills and the empty road.
Tranquil emptiness without the
sound of advice
and questions
of "Are you okay?"
And I eat and sleep and walk on
walk on walk on.