Grief, the Hollow

Grief carves a hollow —
not a gentle absence,
but a vast, aching vacuum.

Insurmountable,
It waits —
a chasm in the chest,
pulling us toward its still,
silent dark.

And yet,
We are given a choice.

We can fall —
Let the emptiness wrap us
in its cold,
invisible hands.

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Or,
We may begin again.

Pour water into the void,
drop by trembling drop,
until it cradles quiet ripples
instead of echoing loss.

Let it become a pond,
where small fishes flicker
like forgotten laughter,
and floating flowers
bloom with memory —
delicate, enduring.

Make it yours —
a haven woven
not of absence,
but of love
that remains.

For My Father
In Loving Memory of BS Bisht
(May 4, 1960 — September 12, 2024)