I

Yes, they miss their mates.
Yet, do they mourn as we mourn?
Is it merely aloneness
or is it the deep,
hole in the soul,
cracked heart mourning
that feels as though
sun will never rise,
wound will will never heal,
blood will always ooze?

In the solemn howl of widowed wolf,
the broken honks of mateless goose,
we hear wild poetry.
Nature laments, Her kingdom
derging death songs in the wind.

II

She mourns.
Rachel cries in the wild
when her child is torn from her breast,
her sobs are death born songs.
There is a universe between
she misses
and
she mourns.
She mourns.

III

Mourning is that too intense feeling.
It must disolve in tears or we die.
Missing is the slowly filling hole which,
at last, is felt only in moments,
heartbeats of memory before
the world arrives again
to drive us on
and
on.

IV

Let us mourn until we can no longer.
Then move on to missing, thus to healing.
Delivered from the pain until Ressurection,
when we, the wolf, the goose,
Rachael in the wilderness,
are whole again.