every great loss begins with a fold
a crease in the spine and
a tuck behind the ear on
thin sheets of white tangled
and spread smooth again
with pilling rolled in quiet moments
tossed carelessly to the wind
that suspend the fall and feign flight
over pools of murky moonlight.
we can only dance in the air so long before
our folds flatten and wings become too heavy
and we float with no apparent grace to the earth
without promise of another ride
while dust gathers at our elbows and atop our shoulders
and we wait until we’re ready to toss the sheets
buy a duvet, and write our grocery lists on a napkin.