Grief wears such warm clothes.
The warmth of love remembered.
The warmth of memories.
It’s just, it’s cold where the clothes let in the wind.
Under the cuffs. Inside the collar.
Beneath the shirt hem.
It’s like the grave freshly covered,
the blossom on the overhanging shrub.
Everything’s so beautiful under the sky blue,
the daffodils in a glass jar,
the exquisite tender feeling.
But then you remember,
in a sudden chill of wind,
that you’re bereft of that person buried beneath.
They can’t share this.
You can’t share them.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry