Grief summons with heft.

In its wake we gather what pieces are left.

Grief resides in the warp and weft

Of seconds, minutes, hours;

Its hand is deft

At stitching itself to the fabric of our day, until the two are cleft.

Forever are we seemingly bereft

Of our precious moments, sensations and scents,

For they are now held by the tenuous threads of grief.

Come to grief,

And let it swathe and bathe you.

May it provide some relief, however brief.

Come to grief.