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
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.