How many things do I bury without even a song, rather, instead, moving forward, moving away, moving on, moving?
A glimmer of hope, passed.
A bubble-gum-pink camellia blossom, overflowing onto itself, taken down to the ground by the weight of its own beauty.
A tear, running down my left cheek.
A reason to turn left.
A missing sock.
A ladybug, upside down in the windowsill, the sun’s heat quickly turning it to dust.
A family heirloom, shattered.
A species of grasshopper, extinct.
A treatment, failed.
A glass of water, spilled, in a drought.
A language disappeared along with its speakers and a whole way of relating to, understanding the world.
A fallen leaf at the end of its time on the mother tree.
A fire in my belly, extinguished.
A wetland, receding.
A sob, swallowed, as I look in my rearview mirror at her standing on the curb.
A daughter, never again being an infant.
Why don’t I sing to lift up, to give voice to my sorrow?
Why don’t I sing aloud my grief at the breaking as I go?