Crumpled Passages

Loss is a washed out highway.
A crumbling passage with no egress.

“Why?” is the moaning of the wind. There
is no reason, “What if ?” is the barking

sea lions, the keening of circling hawks.
Grief is at low tide and soon silvery shell fish

howl. Hear them? Moon moves and there is nothing
one can do to affect its trajectory. Acceptance

is the lukewarm thermos of coffee on the butcher
block. I drink it, therefore I am. Amusing myself

with wordplay. Spoofing my mother's favorite philosopher.
And, his name escapes me. Kant? Sartre? Oh. Yeah. deCartes.


©2024 Deborah C. Segal