This is the first poem I've started since I began to work on my novel eighteen months ago. Recent events have made it difficult for me to enter the fourth revision of my novel.

Today's writing is the beginning of a poem examining the bitter side of love that comes with loss. In this writing, the rules and structure of form (A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.), protected me from breaking the bough or the dam or whatever one needs to honor sadness with grace in this world.

My hope is that by writing into my sorrow, I offer a mirror through which others can reflect upon theirs and in that space, grace might find its way in.

The Futility of Waking

There will be grieving, there will be for some time

when the heart, bent and broken is trampled again

tumorous ending of beginnings, splintering and sublime

Scrambling for shards, we listen for the chime

Uncertain of all things, the who, why or when

There will be grieving, there will be for some time

From sunrise slog to teatime trudge, all will be climb

Every futile waking, every stroke of pen

tumorous ending of beginnings, splintering and sublime

All thing of beauty a venomous lime

When that whom you hold has broke from the bend

There will be grieving, there will be for some time

Nor howl of wolf, nor rooster crow, nor movement of mime

None will echo the melancholy which cannot be spoken

tumorous ending of beginnings, splintering and sublime

Death is a thief and theft is a crime

Woeful and sullen, we are left on the mend

There will be grieving, there will be for some time

tumorous ending of beginnings, splintering and sublime.