Emptiness

There is an emptiness in me
that cannot form words

or even hear them.

A crack in the macadam
with not even a weed -
unwanted thing -
poking through to the sun.

It may be because our
child is now dead;

or because this is the
time in the mottled and damp
green-brown world
for no stirrings.

Nothing moves but birds
on the top, scouring
the moist earth for worms
to pull up from the dirt.

Scabs from the skin.

Pre-spring death just hangs
dank,

blends with silhouettes
and with the ground
and just stays there.

Slowly. Slowly the birds
will bring back the daffodil’s
yellow, the tulip’s red, and
the skies lion blue.

Slowly
the crocus will push up,
burst and fade to milky
white. When this has come,
perhaps by then, words
will return. Words that feel
as if they have meaning.