I give my grief

to a makeshift altar

I give my grief

to the cypress tree, blown 
down by a winter storm,

wood chips like ashes, 
the staccato of logs 

tossed onto a pile 
by the rusted burn barrel—

a makeshift altar 
to honor what gave us

the melodic song of
a wood thrush 

that one summer, 
bark ribbons curled 

in the mouths of mothers, 
giant leopard moths 

waiting out the day, 
a thousand silhouettes 

at sunset, carpet of green
needles, hummingbirds 

in hiding, the ghost of 
an orange & white cat 

napping beneath 
sweeping, low branches