Grief is like a miracle
like opening your mouth for water, and finding rain. You stand for days outside the body of a silent church. Snow touches the stillness of the windows and you long for their acceptance, a few tears. You tell yourself the door isn’t closed: it’s open and weeping. Like the orange rose that never bloomed all Spring then one day in Autumn opened atriums of colour. Now all the roses gather and the door is open-armed. People think I’m strange touching my lips to the wood, but ice is thawing to love inside my body: I don’t know how else to show my gratitude.