Brave Face

When grief stops by for a long visit,

you methodically put on your brave face and remark,

“I have somewhere else to be.”

Out the door,

you propel breathlessly,

Barely noticing the trees lining the rain-soaked street;

myopic to the sadness they carry.

Don’t run through the mess.

Sit in the mud.

Slide your fingers so deep

that days later your fingernails

still hold the gritty remnants of your pain.

Look up.

The trees are heavy with years of

unspoken sorrow.

Breathe in their melancholy.

Let your tears match pace

with the steady rain,

soaking you in heartache.

Look down.

There’s sacred truth in every puddle.

Your reflection gazes back at you,

messy,

tear-filled,

uncomfortably bare:

This is your brave face.