The Grief That Will Not Break
Lately I have been doing a lot of writing which has been a way I process events, emotions, and everything in between. Since this fall, I have written 3 poems. This first one was my life as an oak weaving in my life story as an oak tree. In January after working in the omen days prophecies, and the increased messages and initiation of 2026 with spider energy, I wrote about my life as a spider and what am I weaving.
This poem is about the grief that was suppressed for years fighting the very system on behalf of my family, victims of domestic violence, and victims of family court sanctioned abuse to the grief witnessing lifelong childhood friends, wellness professionals, fellow Spiritualists, fellow psychics, mediums, astrologers, reiki professionals, yogis and more spew such hate, white supremacist patriarchal toxic capitalist exploitive rhetoric has left me feeling betrayal by a community that preaches love and light and healing.
So, this poem is a reflection of all that grief journey surfacing and after the response of sharing in a community recently, I am sharing here too.
Please let me know how this lands with you or resonates in the comment below.
With care,
Laura Bonetzky-Gaffney (formerly Laura Joseph)
The Grief That Will Not Break
By: Laura Bonetzky
There is a grief that stands behind my ribs
Like winter light behind a shuttered pane,
Present, pale, insistent
Yet unwilling to pour through.
It does not howl.
It does not kneel.
It waits.
In the marrow of my chest
Something ancient bends toward weeping,
But the gates do not open.
The river does not break its banks.
I have been stone too long.
I have stood at the edge of many storms,
Naming the thunder,
Warning the sleeping houses,
Holding a lantern high against the dark.
And now the wind has quieted —
Yet still I stand.
For who would hold the sky
If I were to lay it down?
Who would guard the tender ones
If I unclenched my hands?
There is a mother in me
Who knows the shape of loss
Like a coastline knows the sea
Carved by it,
Rewritten by it,
Never untouched.
She longs to fold inward,
To weep into the hollow of her own palms,
To let the salt of all these unshed years
Return to water.
But strength has grown around her
Like bark around a lightning strike.
The tree still stands.
The scar runs deep.
And so the tears hover —
Mist at the edge of becoming rain,
Clouds too burdened
To fall.
Perhaps the sorrow is not afraid.
Perhaps it is patient.
Waiting for a field
Where it may soften the earth
Without washing it away.
Today, I will not force the river.
I will not split the stone.
I will sit beside this silent tide
And whisper only:
This is heavy.
This is holy.
This is mine.
And when the thaw comes
As all winters yield at last
May I be gentle enough
To let the waters rise.
– Laura Bonetzky
