At first it hurts:  there is
a sound as if of fabric ripping -
drapes being torn to rags
for a quilt

on a Sunday afternoon while
the cicada string section screams
sleepily from the willows, and

cats sprawl on the grass
in the shade.
Supper seems days away

almost like love.  The pain
tugs at the heart, and
suddenly you know
what was ripping. 

A dull, absent ache
ensues, yet like a wound is
cooled by the air of exposure
somehow soothed as

shadows lengthen
across the green, green grass. 
Bees, done with chores,
buzz slowly homeward, laden.

Supper is placed before you
with love, but
neither it nor anything
can fill you. 

Later as you lay in the grass
the universe tucks you in
using the Milky Way as a blanket
that is as cold as your emptiness;

yet eventually the sun bleeds
pink into the dawn sky, and
though you may persist,
fills you with warmth
almost against your will.

-- Tom Rubenoff