Trigger Warning
The morning lifts its yellow-white soul through the trees
Bathing the Douglas Firs with light
Behind them the sky hangs in willful darkness,
Pulled by clouds needing to be on their way
Out there, over the water
Taking along a wish here, a hope there
This is the year my grieving will end
And rage will settle in the warming ground
A resolution not in my hands to shape
But not in anyone else’s either
Sorrow is its own master
I, its subject
Time for a tiny rebellion,
Quick laughter, a stupid joke
Let it go, I say
Let me go with it