The older I get
The more grief I collect.
In fact I float
On an ocean of grief.
On my back,
The sun warms my face.
Blue sky, puffy clouds.
I am content.
Until I turn over.
Then I see
The great blue depths
Of my grieving.
All the dear souls
I’ve cherished
Then lost.
I am lost.
I need air,
I must roll over.
Sun escorting me
Back to life.
The ocean rocks me
In rhythms of living.
Warm water bathing me
Enticing me to swim.
Karen Morris Muriello
Oak Park