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It is a hollow set of metaphors

to say over and over again

that the sun will come up tomorrow

and bring a new day,

without ever having stood in the predawn darkness

and experienced

the exquisite beauty of the first blast of light.

The SOUND was clear and pretty and insistent as it was melodious.

I searched the trees for the source.

I was able to discern the general location and then I heard the SOUND again, coming from the same area.

I looked carefully and thoroughly all the while the SOUND repeating over and over and over again.

I grew impatient at not being able to find the bird responsible for blessing me.

I still had the gift of this beautiful SOUND; this beautiful song.

And, now, I am ok with that.

I don’t know the singer.

But sometimes it’s the song,

not the singer.

I have a close and personal relationship with grief.

I don’t fear him.

When he visits, I pour a cup of coffee that we share,

While I look into the energy in grief’s eye.

I notice the tear welling up in the corner of grief’s eye

And when I tell grief how sorry I am for him

He tells me to kiss his ass

And then laughs a lot like I do.

He lets the tear flow down his cheek

onto his seemingly perpetually stubbly goatee.

He scratches his bald head.

He adjusts his eye glasses and continues to stare straight ahead.

He asks nothing of me and I ask nothing of him

and we just sit there looking into each other’s eyes

and communicate telepathically

as if we are one in the same.

But grief is different than me.

We are not one in the same.

He visits me sometimes and then leaves.

But it always seems to be when I am facing my reflection.

But still, we are not the same.