Sometimes it’s not convenient
to light candles
for the many small deaths
no one notices,
the youth dreams wounded
beneath sheets like crossed lovers,
the high, white prayers of surf
pounded on rock like old laundry,
a favorite old dog’s
slow asthmatic demise,
a dead starling’s eyes,
startled wide by an end
of something never begun,
deaths like broken anonymous pieces
of pink and blue carcasses
exposed to the wind at low tide,
left-over souls
that the sea has let go.
Letting go, when done well,
is done alone.
No other mourners,
no flowers at the burial site.
Just a silent searing of the heart.
Here’s to all parents,
children,
lovers,
poets,
friends
who have let go:
chrysanthemums.