Ground Fine, Still Sharp to the Taste

There’s nothing poignant
Without reflection
And enough life,

That is memory
Left of life, sorrow,
At least solitude,

And the sin of still
Rumination. Fine,
Be mindful, escape

Into narratives,
Flow, focus, hard work,
And meditation.

Still, the simple mill
Wheel, rumination,
Sifting memory,

Grinds small the calm hour
With rough, pointed griefs
That sting, as they should.