grief is a room
with no doors
i sit on the bed
and talk to shadows
that do not answer
š§
sometimes it rises
like tide against sand
sometimes it written
like a letter
i cannot read
š§
yet i have learned
to carry it
not as a burden
but as guidance
to places unknown
š§
and slowly
i find my voice
in spaces
grief forgot to claim
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
I am an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. I write about rural life, family, and the places I grew up around. My poetry and essays have appeared in Beautiful and Brutal Things, My latest book. Check it out on Amazon
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Lightning Never Strikes Twice
The distant rumble, the sudden deluge, the crescendo of sound, the flash of light, the explosive energy ā it never gets old. I became an amateur storm chaser about two years ago. My wife, Cindy suggested it. Sort of. She said, "Alex, you know this cancer is killing me. I've come to terms with that, but you're smothering me. Go join a band, write a book, or become a storm chaser, for all I care. I love you, but you need a hobby."
By Julie Lacksonen6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
"yet i have learned to carry it not as a burden but as guidance to places unknown" My favorite part! š
This was so sad and beautifully written. You captured the emotions so accurately. Loved your poem!
Grief comes in waves; some are gentle, and some knock you ass-over-teakettle into the ocean floor. May those spaces unclaimed by grief grow. š