poetry grandmother grief

To Grandmother I Go

 

 

The wound is still fresh

It puckers, it bleeds,

it is sprouting weeds

of what used to be

you and me

sitting neath trees

drinking tea

listening to the rustle of

our ancestors leave

while we wonder

about what used to be

god i hope you

return to me

Nightlight

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh
Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

I worshipped the light
I burned for him
The fire in me bright

What is the night
What is it, but the
light?

Reflected?

I ran from the night
I cowered and ran
Towards the light

What is the light?
But the fire burning
Bright?