Grief

I know that on Sundays, at around midday,

You cautiously open the ancient sideboard

And pour a glass of the same grape liquor

We used to share in better times.

I know you're not happy now when you drink it,

That it's lost all savor for you,

Because sometimes sorrow can quite erase

One's taste for wine and the light of day.But you know, as I do, that the storm will pass

And that the implacable sun doesn't simply stop

When obscured by a dark, pernicious cloud,

Which is why I know I'll return to your house--

On a Sunday that's there on the calendar--

And laugh with you over a glass of grappa.

'Raising a Glass to my Old Man', John Berger