new grief
is putting on shoes
that are in your closet
but not yet worn
you have to break them in

new grief
finds an opening in your heart
carved by past grief
but each day, now
that opening is painfully carved bigger

new grief
recognizes old grief
says hello
then talks over it for days and weeks and months
and never shuts up

new grief
is the guest that wasn’t invited
and yet stays
until the party is over
and you’re ready to go to bed

new grief
is the toddler
dropping a toy from their highchair
waiting to see what happens
and who will pick up the mess

new grief
is the smoke detector
going off
when no one is even cooking
just because it feels like it

new grief
is the shadow on the wall
casting itself
with no sunlight or dark
just memories to light itself

new grief
steals time
entirely
making a minute into an eternity
and a day pass in a moment

new grief
is raw with denial
filled with sad loneliness
rife with what ifs
watered by tears

new grief
spills out at unexpected moments
the smell of bacon
through an open car window
at a red light

new grief
visits you
through the words of the television show
you are rewatching
because it was both of your favorite

new grief
jumps off the page at you
from the book your friend in California suggested
because she also
knows new grief

new grief
shows up at your new grief support group
and speaks through the video
and the people around the table
you recognize yourself in their tears

new grief
floats on the wind
on your walk to the lake
bringing you pelicans and a deer
and kisses of sunshine

new grief
waits in your studio
inviting you to let it all out
onto the canvas
that is your soul’s reflection

new grief
lifts your pen
and holds your heart
while you spill it all on the page
in this new poem

new grief
dials the phone
to call your dad, your son, your friend
because you cannot
call him, now

new grief
sticks around
and becomes part of the furniture
patina-ing into something resembling
new grief’s first cousin, once removed