Grief is a Season

Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.
You are reminded by a date, a place, a random thing.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

You spy red in the deep summer of shadow, a broadleaf
hinting of change. Once you notice you can't unnotice. Everything
a season of sadness creeping in like a thief.

Red is your sister in the month of her birthday, her brief
punctuation fells you like a ghost punch, so young, so cheating.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

Deja vu in the kitchen, your mother leans close, your unbelief
steaming from the turkey, the stuffing, the cranberries burbling.
Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.

You saved her the neck. She ate all her pie. You worried her sleep,
which overtook her (or did she will it?), her will a fierce motif.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.

Black Friday is always black, in its way a relief.
Your losses don't leave you. They find ways to rebring.
Seasons of sadness creep in like a thief.
You mourn again the incarnations of grief.