I measure every grief I meet with narrow, probing eyes - I wonder if it weighs like mine - or has an easier size.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves.

Shooter's so much like Waylon in my eyes, sometimes I wonder who I'm talking to,

Anything remotely close will be enough. I'm looking forward to noticing the sense of wonder in the eyes of these young adults, whether that be in performance in a concert, on a street some place or coming back from a home stay.

In days that follow, I discover that anger is easier to handle than grief.