The scene requires you to cry and you want to.
What you need is buried somewhere
deep in the woods by the lakeside, stored
in the sap or lodged in the branches there
between shoulder and rib-cage when you move
like this or carry your hand to your mouth.
It helps to imagine some music inside you,
your own music eaten alone in the past
maybe or the cold grey song of a stranger.
What works best is a change in the weather –
no more talk of picnics on the little sandy beach,
just armies of cloud rolling in again noiselessly.