at night, when I grieve the most
the stars draw closer,
as if to tell me that loss
needs warmth from the inside-out.
i sit and wait for those low clouds to mourn,
while spring begins to slip into slumber.
then warm dreams magnify the instant
when I was born.
if i am patient, the robbin's
feathers will turn a lustrous blue,
and my memory, so darkly laden, will surely
mark it's own demise, and a certain
delight will be shaken out of
my body like a thousand splendid suns.