Could there be a requisite span of mourning –
some sentence meted out by the dead
to be thrown black out into a day without –
wistfully walking away?
I picked a stone on a path as I thought of you.
I picked a stone for my pocket,
and there, in my pocket is my term of grief.
So do not tell me it is time,
the heels of time kick like boots,
kick like struck mules, stiff in the mud
and braying.
I picked a stone as I thought of you.
And in that stone I keep one thing alive.
And to cast that stone upon waters,
is the moment I too shall die.
Image: Lindsey Middleton on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Beautiful, Devon
Thank you, Jon.
A stunning metaphor for a soul or heart kept warm in solitude and then thrown like the ashes of a lost body !
Thanks, Ray. I was quite angry when I wrote this poem. A friend, well intentioned to be sure, told me that I had more than met the acceptable span of mourning and that I should move on with that oft heard phrase, “that’s what he would want”. The dead want nothing… Sorry man. I was about to launch into a rant. You’re the best.
D