The weather raw and damp,
grey sky, the trees a spring green,
aching in newness.
Ghosts at each intersection I pass.
Losses I can put behind me
while far away spring at me now
like cat’s teeth at my neck.

I could be in the tropics
under blue skies and a bright sun,
but I chose to be here, though
I’m ambushed at every turn.

Do I only imagine tears swelling
my throat?  A sadness that would
drain me dry if I’d let it.  But of course
I won’t, practiced as I am
in turning away.