After the Cleaving
The kids play in a leaf pile in the front yard
scurrying about under a thickening sky
as they throw leaves into the chilled wind.
All afternoon, I listen to their child’s play
grinning my joy against their brilliance.
I can’t help but wonder
why doesn’t he want this anymore?
in that internal dialogue
one must speak after a cleaving
to keep things whole. I hold this secret
tight as a jacket around my skin.
Meanwhile, the clouds hover above us
in a stalled darkness over everything,
while my little birds build and rebuild
their nest of leaves. So rowdy in our grief,
I mask what I don’t completely understand.