Forecasting Grief
A Short Poem
Forecasting grief pools mist through my scalp for three more days, at least. At least. You've spoken things like barren teeth & velvet stem at rosemary oil, and you say it will cure me this hoping for a blood my blood I let. April & its shedding. & its purple blossoms draping the landscape dragging the eye all over, distraction from leaves rotting underfoot. This is not to call April deceptive only that she distracts from the entire picture. Only that my blood has been underfoot this season. This first spring.