i like things that don’t keep.
the meal that took all day to prepare and ten minutes to devour.
the leaf blown off its November branch.
the baby asleep in my arms.
eye contact with a storyteller.
the space between alleluia and applause.
the way the three-year-old says “spaghetti.”
who i am today.
At night I put on my armor.
Eyes open. Ears sharp. Muscles taught.
Awake that you may sleep.
I’ve been alert all day, protecting you
from demons
of
a different sort.
My loyalty
is fierce enough
to bat away the sleep
that yawns at me.
But deprivation
takes its toll
on the body and the mind.
The spirit
is not
untouched
by fleshy need
and mortal care.
The outside battle mirrors
the one within.
Can I relieve myself
of duty?
Never.
Can I find a way
to care for myself
and you
at the same time?
I try and fail,
by my own standard, anyway.
Can I trust
you can stand
alone
long enough
for me to breathe
and remember the hedgerows
at their peak
in the green summertime
so far from here?
That’s a lie.
A story someone else has told.
I’ve never seen them,
so there is no memory
to dust off
and recall.
But I own a few
seeds that I pocketed
long ago,
before you were a whisper
on the wind.
The Daffodils in
that soaking April…
the gnarled old tree
I claimed,
I sat in,
longing for home
and discovering it
all at once.
My two minutes of solitude,
head ducked against the rain,
feet treading on tired cobblestone
as strong as it ever was.
It was a taste
that awoke
a lifetime of hunger.
I yearned most of all
for you, my love.
I must remember that.
Why do I forget the most
when I look at you?
What threat was I imagining
I spotted on the horizon
when you lost the roundness
of your cheeks?
You are cordially invited
to put yourself first;
to meet your own needs,
pursue old passions and new interests,
and like yourself.
The pleasure of your company is requested
by your best self.
Go to her.
The time can be now, or whenever you're ready.
Directions are enclosed (within you).
Refreshments will be served.
Oh yes, and one more thing:
there will be dancing.
You ask for proof. Performance.
I show you leaves and roots.
You ask for experts. Answers.
I show you the sun.
You ask for data. Scores.
I show you smiles.
My evidence abounds, but you dismiss
what is green, not red or black.
How can a sprout or wisened oak
speak to a bottom line?
You fear delays and wasted time.
I watch no clock--
only yellowing.
Photosynthesis
is equal parts math and magic,
formula and faith.
Sometimes I wish I could learn
to count,
to speak your language,
to please you.
But my tongue is tied
when you ask "how much?"
because my answer is...
my whole soul.
I sense the smallest pebble
of skepticism in your hand--
the wall shoots up, diamond strong,
granite thick, mountain tall.
Cold, impenetrable,
to guard my heart: living, breathing
outside my chest,
planted in the richest soil
I fetched from faraway.
There's one small window
and a door. Can't you see?
The handle is unlocked. Walk through,
I beg wordlessly.
You’ll see the children have been picking
all day,
and find them slumbering in sunlight
with fruit-stained cheeks
behind the garden shed.
But you look through the window,
see me napping on the grass
amid heaps
and heaps
of dirt.
No baskets of fruit upon the ground.
Hundreds of invisible stems.