the clinicians like to line up
grief into stages, spotlighting
each searing script in the
wringing hands of our
alternate characters. but
even magnolias know
that there is no neat
progression – it is a minor
chaos to feel so
isolated and reflective, to
shuffle denial like a deck
of collectible cards,
to bargain with
acceptance, to gather all
the stages of
flowering
onto one single
branch and struggle
to be touched,
altogether
and again,
by the morning light
.
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