Poisoned Wine
I thought goodbye, once said, was said for good.
But loss does not abide the season’s turn,
and love remembers all that sorrow would
forget. The forest leaf may blush and spurn
the air, and snows sweep down to fill the earth
with fresh beginnings. Yet grief remains, like blight
in Spring, or sour notes amid the mirth
of Summer song to darken days of light.
It hides itself beneath the dust of days
that disappear without the pomp and crash
of circumstance. It waits until I raise
the cup of fellowship and wash the ash
of mourning from my brow. When joy is mine
at last—then it comes, like poison mixed with wine.
The Good The True and The Beautiful 