Grief in it own way

Grief in its own way.

When Heather smiles,
Hawthorne chuckles, for
the pain of its bush pricking
others, it is sadistic pain
Injecting like needles on others:
I grieve over the loss,
over the abominable loss
of many, failing crops,
fetish craze for somebody’s
coins and cash and trash,
of the prophetic warning of
the impending cataclysm
a whip for the callous and greedy,
she grieves over the plenty,
prosperity, cuts across for gain,
I am bemused by my pet
cat drinking the last sips
from the porcelain cup of
my grandmother’s remnant.