You do not have to get over it.
You do not have to saddle up and hit the trail
and light out leaving behind everything you once loved.
You are allowed to let the wounded bird of your heart
sing silently in the dark for as long as it wants.
Tell me about hurt, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile there is a hot cup of tea, or coffee.
Meanwhile the birds at the feeder, cardinal, bluejay,
goldfinch, are waiting to be fed.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear air,
can still catch your attention as you cross the street
as the cars wait for your passing
as you look out the window from your desk.
Whatever your wound, no matter how long it takes to heal,
the real things of life will wait for you to catch up
with them, will call to you to refill the feeder
and drink your tea before it gets cold.
(Originally written in response to her death in January 2019; reposted today in honor of her birthday.)