a confession of loss and an absence of poetry

i find myself caught staring at an empty page and a candle flame, both are intense, both are drawing me in, absorbing me, though at the moment only one is dancing.

for some of us winter is softening, retreating to hide between the thick trees on the mountains; where their sisterhood is so strong, light does not easily pass. though in the softening of spring's breath, my words are like snow that will not settle. losing shape, density, purpose, they drift on to the page, dampen it, and as yet, leave no discernible offering of poems.

so whilst i feel i am 'ok', 'fine', 'as can be expected', the absence of words tells me i am still in the free-fall of losing and until that process has finished, no vessel can hold me. no thread can secure thoughts or musings to the random branches of trees, catch a ladybird's wing to tie them to.

i am respecting the grief and letting it do its thing. i am staying quiet because it feels right to be so. i took exceptionally long walks because it felt good that something was in motion and my head was so full of loss (i see the irony in that) that the only way to have some clarity, was to be moving. i cry often, at random moments in the day whenever my dad enters my thoughts. and i am being so much kinder to myself than i ever have been before.

so i have gone in search of something to pour into those ragged holes, something which is soft and soothing. i have found myself a little best friend who arrived just in time to distract me from my first father's day without a father. which thanks to my dual residency will happen twice this year, great.

i feel if 2020 taught me anything, it was both/and. i can be heart sick and happy, i can be quiet and joyful, i can be ready for change and also hold the gifts of the past, i can be in denial and also grateful, i can be a poet and also be absent of words.