Grief Drought

Peering through the grasses
standing like sentinel guards,
you can see that the pond
up on the hill we explored
with the dog is way down now, 
exposed for the dank hole that it is.
You can see deer tracks
crowding around the muddy edges
trying to drink from what remains.  

Grief, too, has its seasons of drought.

 The water of life
that comes to fill up the hole
you left when you left
with the comfort of its bath
drains in the drought of remembrance.
Suddenly exposed,
its architectural foundation,
built upon with cracked mud cakes,
belies a crater in the soul.  

And this dear scrambles.

           © 2012 Tess  Lockhart. All rights reserved.