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.