Will it ever end, this heavy, cold, lonely emptiness & sadness...
~×~×~×~
Grief
By Louise Erdrich
Sometimes you have to take your own hand
as though you were a lost child
and bring yourself stumbling
home over twisted ice.
Whiteness drifts over your house.
A page of warm light
falls steady from the open door.
Here is your bed, folded open.
Lie down, lie down, let the blue snow cover you.
