The grief inside their bones.

Two springs later, the grasses have come back to life. But the twisted blackened skeletons of the oak forest show few signs of recovery from the fire. They play a very long game. I imagine the oaks burrowed deep within, attending only to their roots and the flow of nutrients at their center, slowly slowly bringing life back in imperceptible ways.

The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.

Nobody wants to hear you cry

about the grief inside your bones…”

My bones said, “Write the poems.”

(Andrea Gibson, from The Madness Vase)