Annette O'Neil
2 min readDec 29, 2021

grief is the love that has no place to go.

for several seasons, you received my river

diving ever towards you from a height

bringing you the trickle of my many mountaintops

all gathered, thundering, in the

valley between your arms

and spread out, out, out over the delta between us,

full of birdsong conversation,

finally shallow enough to see my feet

but still strong enough to carve patterns everywhere I looked

one day

there was a wall where there had been no wall.

my river hit unfamiliar stone.

but there was so



still coming down the mountain

it climbed brick by brick as only rivers can -

by becoming more, and larger,

looking for a space to sneak past to that remembered meeting.

any space would do.

deep was my love that had no place to go.

one day

this lake of drowning felt a tug

as one edge touched another valley

(much higher than yours; heading elsewhere)

and slipped in.

the waterline forgotten,

a surge of springmelt found the furrow

and decided to seek a new sea.

and even as I flash and plunge,

finally free to gallop toward another waiting shore

giddy and glistening

i see

you forced me to fill myself first.

sweet is this love i had to grieve to know.