Grief

the dead flowers of myself
by Charles Bukowski from his book Betting on the Muse

bulls strut in pinwheel glory
rockets stun the sky
but I don't know
quite what to make
of the dead flowers
of myself
whether to dump them out of the bowl
or
press them between
these blank pages
and go on;
well, all grief comes down
to hard death
and weeping finally ends
thank the god
who made
it


I love Charles Bukowski, his poetry and his prose. Even if you're not "into poetry" don't hesitate to pick up or look up some of his work. I guess "gritty" would be a good word to describe him.

Back to this particular poem. I've been struggling with grief since the death of my dear friend, Erin. It's been six years. Has it really been that long? I have lost my parents in the interim, but neither death affected me like hers. Perhaps because we are meant to lose our parents, but not our best friends, not while we are still in the midst of life.

Does all grief come to a "hard death"? Does the weeping finally end? I know some grief does. I'm not sure I'll ever be "over it." Honestly, I'm not sure I want to be. She was (is) a part of my life, a part of me.