How do trees grieve their daughters
little leaves, getting sicker with autumn
never able to protect them against the ill wind
how can you grieve something
that has died, the plant on your window, for instance
you thank your wits for not buying that goldfish
no woman should rely on a man for feeding
when you are part feeder, part fed
you turn to yourself, stare
at the hair, released, shorter
the death, apparent on your skin ever day
even with these uneven lines
nothing stops grief when it hits
not the wind that turns the leaves yellow
not the same wind that toggles with your hair
this is why, atop the mountain filling with old trees
you release, dead, the locks of hair,
his memory and old tree leaves,
everything deserves a burial
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