When grief speaks inward, none but self is known,
And every shared horizon drains to sea;
The heart, though fierce, may build its walls of stone,
While loss insists, “You took the whole from me.”
Yet storms draw near, and waves rise hard at night;
The past still crowds the room, though hearts grow far apart;
Do not let anger name the only right,
Or make one wound the compass of the heart.
No guide foretold what changing years would say;
Wait, read between the lines beneath the high;
Then find, through reasons, one less ruinous way,
And let the next uncertain day pass by.
You cannot make the vanished season shine,
Yet may make wiser choices, given time.