When you are grieving do not search for four-leaf clovers, little charms that might staunch the flow and ease the pain. Little grass-strewn stars that might say, ‘we’ve made a mistake; your fate was meant for another.’ When you are grieving you have to drag your chains, scrape your knuckles, sit in the biting ants.
No one wants to do this.
Sit and the sting will pull the wretched out of you. Seek no shade and the beating sun will burn your hope, and your fear of losing it.
Do not chatter or explain, speak with the heart to someone who also knows about the clovers.
Someone who won’t offer you a cool drink or a key or salve or saving, someone who will look you in the eyes while your heart bleeds.
If it is only you abide in what comes, and weep perhaps to the hidden clovers.
