Grief lays stones in my heart,
one for each loss,
gemstones all, but
it’s harder to pump
blood around stones.
Sometimes a family
of beavers moves in,
fells trees, sets up house.
Minding their business,
they don’t know
they stop the flow.
The pressure builds,
wet, heavy,
nudging rocks,
until the dam bursts,
catching me unaware—
catching us all unaware.
Sometimes the buildup’s
so slow I don’t know I hurt
until the dam bursts.
Sometimes I’m washed away.
But the rocks, they stay.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
