©2015 by Jack A. Urquhart
(for D.T.U.)

They say living with grief
is a marathon;
like a non-stop jaunt,
one keeps running,
keeps jogging
milestone to milestone.
But I don’t agree—
not anymore.

That is what I’d tell you,
if you were still here,
still listening to me.
I’d argue a foot race
is too high and dry
for human sorrow,
say that survival swims
in fluid similes.

I’d tell how swimmingly
a steady stroke turns days
into weeks, into months,
into wearying years.
Show how sometimes,
a dog-tired paddle
is all that’s possible.
Say how loss will do that—

Slow a person’s pace,
the aches, the swelling,
settling into the joints
that hold us together.
I’d speak of other risks, too;
of random rogue waves,
of how easily
we are swamped in sadness.

I’d argue that it’s possible
to drown more than once,
show it’s a whitewash,
how they say the swimmer
comes to grief—
how we sink
but three times
before the end.

I’d offer the truth
is more buoyant than that.
Like flotsam and jetsam
on a sea of tears,
we can bob and dip
for quite a spell—
as much as a lifetime—
‘till comes a dry land.