Poem – Turning Madness into Flowers

If my sorrow were deeper
I’d be, along with you, under

the ocean’s floor; 

but today I learn that the oil

that pools beneath the ocean floor

is essence



of all our



our ancestors who have died and turned to oil

without our witness

eons ago.

We’ve always belonged to them.

Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water’s edge

as well as for myself.

It is our grief

heavy, relentless,


us, however resistant,

to the decaying and rotten

bottom of things:

our grief bringing

us home. 

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