The first one, written on July 15th, was called I Don't Know How to Say Good Bye. I was raw...and I really and truly didn't know how to say good bye. Nothing felt right.
On August 30th, I wrote the poem Touch. I described the things I wanted... I wrote about connection and encouragement from beyond.
On September 4th, I wrote the poem Ashes to Wind, when I was thinking about scattering Rick's ashes in Ounquit, Maine. I described the feelings of a day that has not yet come, and the emotions and power of letting go.
On September 23rd, I wrote Don't Rush Me, a poem that turned out to be a letter to myself. I worked through employing patience and channeling healing.
On September 30th, I chopped and changed a poem from 2006 I called Recounting Autumn, tweaking it to fit all that life has thrown at me. It spoke of change and fresh perspective.
And on November 10th, I wrote The Pull, a poem about grief driving fear, quests, and life.
I noticed something. The first three poems use the word "you" as in me addressing Rick. I write as though to him. By the fourth poem, I am writing to myself. I even call myself by name. By the fifth poem, I am nostalgic, writing about myself rather than Rick or grief itself. By the sixth poem, though I write about grief and all of my emotions as I move onward, what's obvious is not the grief part but the moving part. I begin and end the poem with the same two lines (which are repeated elsewhere in the middle as well):
It flows and ebbs, and ebbs and flows;
The pull of grief, it comes and goes.
And so, it seems clear now. Grief is still here... but sometimes it is not.