You didn’t cry
often enough
in your long life
held back sobs
always saving
something
you never know
when it might be
needed.
At ninety-four
you float in your
salt bed
buoyant with tears
feeling pain no doctor
can diagnose
something seeps
inside you
lungs fill up
you’re drifting
Maybe your
wet sorrow will
offer a way out
like little Alice
by the tiny garden door
swimming toward land
with odd companions
maybe you will
drift off in your sea
unmoored
a coracle round
and sturdy
after having responsibly
returned to harbor
so many times
relief sobs itself free
like a wild breaker
on which to scud
once the frayed rope
gives.
~for Lucille Brown Bohnstedt.