This is a most congenial place
To soak our grief
And stuff my face.
Food and sorrow go together
Like cap, or bird, and feather.
What better way to fill the empty space?
Like a feather sorrow loosens to fall, loosens here
More than in any other sphere.

Praise, praise the one that died,
Mind-candles upon fond memories,
Those of pettiness defied.
Lit memories and death go hand in hand,
What better way to start to mend?
Many a psalm and prayer's been tried.
Lighting one's life is balm to the mending
And speaks to the end without an ending.

Our gathering began with murmurs at noon
Then voices grew much louder.
The sting of loss lifts with each spoon,
The patter of common life inflates.
Talk of the loved one slowly retreats.
"What trip will you be taking in June?"
Grief is strange for in short time
It shifts shape, loses weight -- Is it the wine?

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