by Mary Jane Hurley Brant
My grief’s a whirling ceiling fan
It whips me about again and again.
My soul a tortured tear-stained book.
This splintered old boat on an angry sea
It rocks; it shouts you’ll never sink me.
My soul a prayerful history.
A blossoming limb torn from our family tree;
Like lightening it’s deafening oh God save me.
My soul just aching to bring her back.