I'm always borrowing grief, a cup of sugar.
This is the neighbor's
grief, not mine;
the neighbor's cup. Let
me take that sure
walk through the
rocky meadow down
to the place next
door and return it.
I've not seen you in
so long. What
should it matter that you are gone?
It is not like I'll need
to fill up the space
left by your absence
from my day.
I can't say when last
we spoke or met.
Yet, your loss is keen and bitter
as some bad root that no amount
of sugar will temper. It burns into me.
