(Desire Path)
The first day of Spring
was the last day I drank
the first time we’d spoken
in over five years;
the last time I thought I might again
be able to hold your hand
in mine.
(and I did not)
Instead, I held the wound open,
inviting you to step inside
and like the cat you’ve always been,
you teased, flirted as you hedged—
sniffing at the softness within.
Never coming to rest.
Again:
that internal echo, aching
space only having grown
emptier year to year:
intercostal cathedral,
buttressed by bone—
I know, now. I know.
Never again to step foot or heart
in that home; no way together-forward—
the paths diverged too long ago—
I will not bushwhack my way back
to the too-tame tended garden:
meticulously maintained, never overgrown.
You cannot, will not meet me.
I stopped the stillness, my weeping—
the staying, my calling-to-be-found—
and I moved. Damn it,
I picked my own sorry path through,
learning the names of every plant along the way,
knowing (now) which ones will poison,
which will sustain—
ornaments and flowers will not do me, anymore.
Nothing potted, please— not-a-thing contained.
I’ve no need for rows, nor for “weeds”;
so, still, they remain.
I do not pluck; I leave, I wait
for them to explain, to show me:
belonging.
I am learning
(now)
to stay my vibrating hand.
The woods (still) contain clearings,
dappled spots of softness, within.
Still: mine invitation
for wildness.
I do not expect your availing.
Still, still.
