SUSAN J. ATKINSON

How Can Things Die on a Morning Such As This?

When the crown of the sun
breaches the trees in the backyard
and a mug of lemon tea cools
on a table fashioned from a tree trunk,
it’s hard to believe things can die.
But they do.

Look closely. Already, summer blooms
bend their heads, their brown-tinged
leaves hang tired like crepe paper.

This is how it happens:
a beloved parent dies,
soon the other follows.
Loss clasps the space
between heart and rib
and grief becomes a shadow,
shares its mo(u)rning with sorrow.

When the crown of the sun
breaches the trees in the backyard
and a mug of lemon tea cools
on a table fashioned from a tree trunk
and when the shadows are at their longest,
you can see them holding hands for comfort.