The routes of loss are varied

by Janice Fitzpatrick-Simmons

there is one, it seems to me
a narrow mountain track with roiling
grey clouds full of fears and rushing wind.
I must turn my back on that; stay indoors,
light a fire against the cold,
  sit thinking of what might–have–beens;
hope that this too will pass.

The routes of loss are varied
it seems to me, there is one as dark
as lough water — a wild sky scatters its light
mine eyes dazzle.
And for an instant, I fathom the depths,
then darkness again. The wind dries my tears.
I steady myself. The day has cleared. I face
south and west; lake water still,
mirrored and myriad trees reflected on the surface
a glass of lemonade in my hand at a small table
where sun warms my bones. All of it,
all of it for love. I raise my glass,
fill myself with its sharp sweetness.