a poem in my pocket

I.

death is squared
concrete vault
heavy, cold, uncaring

grief is round
worn river stone
smooth, comforting

to carry inside
your pocket until it
grows warm, familiar

take it out,
gently turn over
in hands to examine

II.

death is sharply
broken, black umbrella
ruined beyond repair

grief is softly
falling rain shower
watering the garden

you stay out
in the weather
exposed to droplets

look up at
grey skies with
blurred vision, wet face