"That's a deep subject,"
I'd oft repeat, to chide
the speaker for such a lame,
one-word comment.

Well, indeed.
I'm in it at the bottom,
Swimming in my own tears
drowning in grief that I
must haul up bucket
by bucket.

But the hauling is needful--
the bucket-at-a time tending
a necessary process.
The grief needs to be felt and
measured--lived through
to measure me--
I do not want to come up short
again, but learn from this
deep, deep hole,
and coming back up,
take this pain, put it to
good use, to see past the
bucket and the baling
and the bawling,
on to the wishes coming true for me.

Wish me well.

I wrote this poem the day after I was terminated from a job I thought was perfect for me--teaching four year olds with Head Start. Alas, it was 'not a good fit' (I love semantics) and my heart was ripped out of my chest as I was let go and told to pack up without coming back. I never even got to say goodbye to the children.  
Several weeks on the other side of the experience, it's clear God had a much better plan in mind, but it was a dark, dark time to go through.  Now the pain has subsided, it was easier to put into print.