On the first day of grief, I raged against the storm,
like a mighty oak
with arms outstretched, flailing,
boxing with God.
The storm ripped branches off
flung them about like twigs,
scattering the broken pieces of me
and left me uprooted.
On the second day of grief, I raged against the storm,
like a solid door shut tight.
The wrath rattling my hinges,
I braced against the torrents.
The storm ripped the door from its mooring
as it sailed the sky like a schooner
until it landed in someone’s house
frightening sleeping children.
On the third day of grief, I danced with the storm
like a weeping willow
with arms outstretched, like the hula
telling a story of love.
The storm stripped a few leaves
casting them about like confetti
at a parade for my loved one
leaving only a trail of tears.
On the fourth day of grief, I opened to the storm
like a screen door
allowing it to blow through me
leaving my hinges in tact.
The storm blew through and through
rearranging a few things here and there
doing no damage, but leaving me cleansed and
happy to have loved like that.