21.03.026

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,

waiting for 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 tended garden: tame, never wild. 

Meticulously maintained,

never

overgrown. 

You will not meet me.

I stopped my stillness, my staying, my calling-to-be-found

and I moved. Damn it,

I picked my own sorry way 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”;

still, they remain. I do not pluck.

I leave, I

wait for them to explain, to show me;

I am learning

(now)

to stay my vibrating hand.

The woods (still) contain clearings, dappled spots of softness within.

Still: the invitation for wildness.

I do not expect you to avail.

Still, still.