Grief is not loud—it whispers slow,

In morning light and evening’s glow.

It hides in rooms we used to share,

In silent steps and empty chairs.

It speaks in songs we used to play,

And lingers through the longest day.

It weaves itself in dreams at night,

Then leaves before the morning light.

It’s not a thing that fades with time

It softens, yes, but still it climbs

Into the heart and makes a home,

A shadowed place we walk alone.

Yet in that ache, a love remains,

Unbroken by the loss or pain.

For grief, you see, is love endured

A bond that death has not obscured.

Ann Marie