So many orphaned sorrows,
I gather the castoffs,
pluck stories by root,
Old tears still bloom
with dark, thickened flowers.
In the potting shed I ease them
one by one
into terracotta bassinets.
Pack soil round tight,
to keep them from weeding out
into the garden proper,
before their time.
From the window, half-light,
slips between the shelving slats
trips over spiderwebs and drip trays.
Safety among the looming gloom,
safe from the unearthing grief.
Tonight’s poetics challenge was to take a line from Paul Dunbar’s The Paradox, and to build a poem around it. My choice was “I am the mother of sorrows; I am the ender of grief;” which has led to this rather odd piece.