The Shadow of Grief
This solitude passes
like the first breeze of spring
through crocus blooms
It is the ghost of grief that haunts me,
a whisper in the garden of my dreams.
No longer is it the honeysuckle nightmare
that cloys at the fence with sickly sweetness
or the suffocating kudzu cloak
in the hot August sun.
It has become the scent of wisteria
charming and gentle
in the shade of the hollow water oak.