The Vale from Wildflowers to Seed

Every woman who has both birthed and buried a child
knows grief from the inside out.

I took a brush,
and stoked the rose gold as a fiery ember,
painted the sweet scented way.
All through each vale,
and ripened meadow,
lithe with the lace of the fields,
I filled my straw hat to the brim
with watercolor wildflowers.

I meandered along in this life,
meaning to tell you how I felt
eventually, while you were
carried at birth,
with a soft downy head
like a seed pod blowing in the wind,
and again over the churchyard.
Your body, now aged, laid down.

Emily Isaacson

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