Ocean

There is a soft ocean of grief.
Days like this are more sinking than floating,
more drowning than breathing.
Even the waves are singing about it.

Crashing, tearing, the violence
gives way to a quiet infinity —
It is not cold below, as some say,
There is a comfort to it.

Not the brush of cotton on skin,
nor the warmth of a close body,
it is enveloping, whole,
a familiar cradle to drift in.

There is a soft ocean of grief.
It fills the nose and mouth, the eyes and lungs,
more waiting than reaching.
Even the waves are quiet