"Give sorrow words"

These days when I'm on my own,

thoughts about death and dying elude me.

They seem to have dried up, like all the tears

I should be shedding for myself.

A veritable torrent of tears. 

They've dried up too; the most I can muster

is moisture in an eye when I hear

something especially poignant:

The BBC recorded a nightingale in a Sussex wood;

the peon of joy rang out

but it was 1942 

against the non-stop background of British bombers

droning their way, at their own risk,

to annihilate German cities

and civilians. Worth a tear!

Sometimes, I feel like Shakespeare's Macduff

with my hat pulled down over my eyes.

“No”, you say; “he was told to give sorrow words”.

But what have all these book of poetry been

if not to give sorrow words!

“No”, I disagree. Theres been an age old 

distinction between telling and showing. 

I have no trouble with telling;

showing is a different story.

Perhaps it all comes from living on my own

for so many years; no one to get

irritated at, vent spleen upon,

share joy and grief. Anyway,

I am now 74, too late to change.

Besides, I'd rather share yesterday's miracle

when three monarchs emerged on one day.

One sat on my hand for 30 minutes

occasionally opening and shutting it's wings. 

Transformation, of what a friend's toddler

calls 'catybillars', which has more 

significance for the world than any 

account of my pain and loss.