Grief & the Writers Hearts

[wastelandimperiatrix]

Wetlands are what the ground becomes when spring breaks forth

March rain soaking the ground and flooding,
causing the waters of the creek to rise and flow
Fast as it rushes, rushes down

Spring is a time of growth, of beginnings and endings
Green breaking through the ice,
paving the way for mushrooms and moss
quartz like, melting through the grates

The bridge is where the sky meets the sea,
crossroads eternal and everlasting,
washing the past and future forwards
singing, waving, and crashing

Down tumbles the writers pen, lost to the ages
One small tremor and the pen falls under
Down, down into the crashing water.

Grief is the heart of the writer,
Pink and gold, and beautiful too
At the bottom of the creek.
unable to be recovered.

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I lost my favourite pen today. Nothing much else to say.