I recently saw this poem on the back of a memorial at a funeral. I
can't seem to find it on any search engine and would love to know its
source. Thank You.


There are no words that can take this away,
words, that mill in the mouth like black ants on sugar,
none that can mend
this rip in the bright fabric of your life.
A bruise has formed in your heart, 
A stone has grown in your throat.

I spent the afternoon I heard the news
cutting back iris,
slicing their green wands
that danced in the wind
to a row of uneven stubble,
crooked teeth, a gape and a stare.
What?s missing
is more real than what is,
those silken blooms, their rich colors
tinting the air, their aura
hovering over this cropped space.

One day, some years from now,
You will be drinking tea
On a golden autumn afternoon,
A bowl of chrysanthemums
On the polished table.
You will almost feel happy.
But it will not be that loss
has ceased to play its muted cello
or that memory has retreated
with its albums and yellow clippings
but rather that sorrow
now sings in your bloodstream,
flows and ebbs with each pulse of your heart.