Thaw

a poem

Sometimes grief feels big,
like an earthquake
or a crashing wave
or a sonic boom.
It shakes and soaks and slams—
It takes and takes and takes.
Loud things get quiet,
because sound must dissipate.
This is the part
that scares me most.

Sometimes grief feels small,
like dust
or crumbs
or atoms.
It scatters then settles then stirs—
It grows and grows and grows.
Small things get bigger
because of compound interest.
This is the part
that confounds me most.

Sometimes grief feels cold,
like a January morning
or a brain freeze
or the middle finger.
It shocks and stuns and stiffens—
It suspends time.
The days are short
because the nights are long.
This is the part
that plagues me most.

Sometimes grief feels warm,
like a porch nap in July
or a fireplace hearth
or an omniscient gaze.
It is memories and stories and songs—
It is proof of love.
I move towards it
because my body needs to thaw.
This is the part
that heals me most.

nineties summer; not quite a porch nap, but close enough

End note: This is my first poem I’ve shared on Substack! Thanks for reading it. If you’d like to receive more essays and prose (and maybe poems?) of both a serious and humorous nature, you can do that using the button below. Thank you for the hospitality of your mind and heart and time; I’m honored by your readership.