Like layered, tissued longing
grief builds slow and quiet,
beyond the call of consciousness
through ancient days and nights.
From earliest beginnings
life spreads it strong but sure;
within emotion's cellared heart
it waits to be recalled.
For everytime we need to shed
our Self, our dreams, our hopes,
we lay it down in silken spread
as grief's fresh broken face.
From our first breath it builds
and grows, like rings around a tree
and every time we feel new loss,
that floor will be revealed.
It is our sure foundation,
our feeling Self laid deep
and if we do not tend and mend
it will grow weaker yet.
We try to close the door each time
and lock the pain away,
but deep within our darkest Self
the damage is displayed.
Without the time and courage spent
to see and feel and heal,
we build our Self on shaky ground;
a floor which cannot hold.