June Mourning
by Tom Harmon

It's on days like this
that I wrestle most
with your news
and my powerlessness:

days, when each blade of grass
every tree
the hills
the mountains
all of nature it seems
surrender earth's cares

to a cloudless sky
_on the breeze
and we sit by the lake

just you, me
and the tumor that won't heal
no matter how I hold you
no matter how I touch you.

At my strongest
I pray it rains - days should not
be so beautiful;

at my weakest
I wish neither of us
were ever here.

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