Last

Last petals of summer,
pungence of the dying garden,
transparency of alder leaf,
your grandmother's hand.
The way the full moon hides
her face in a veil of tears.
Your tears, friend.
Peace comes
without ceremony.

No votive flame
of consolation.
No bell of mindfulness.
No lover's elegiac midnight kiss.

Quiet as evening dew
the fist of your dear heart
unclenches; you scent
the fragrance of loss.
This too is a portion of the earth's
unspeakable beauty.