In the roots
circles are closing
like tears after dark
in winter
in the park…

We are,
each of us,
strange constellations
knit together by half…

Fear is a subtle, cold congestion
Deadening circularity
Frustrated containment
A continuous appeal…

Grief is not the ‘price’ of love
It is already an intimate part of loving.

Parts of ourselves that don’t rationalise
In tears, fall like seeds