How the grass
still grows here,
I do not know.
High, and waving on,
It's the indigo
sky of warm
which made it so, perhaps. At least,
that's what I tell myself,
even with an aching
warning me in double time
But I can't,
and I won't,
clutching, what's marked.
I want the complication of the raw to stain while I cull out what's undecayed,
because in the glass of liquefying
I see so much I never understood,
and I'll lay
all for you.
face the history,
honor the glitter of imposing season,
the birthing and
to the wealth which waited.
I said it.
I'm leaving something out.
With intent. I'm daring you to listen to the whisper of the rustling,
to face the music of the space we once upon a time inhabited.
It was I who staggered away,
shamed by morning.
And I'm sorry I couldn't stand. I'm
Returned, alone, way out here, surrounded by the vacancy, but taking comfort in the possibility.
Because the wild needs
no reason, so I, too, will answer
glow of day,
held out for rightful owner
risk but a challenge, and I'm true-blue as the surge this time.
And loved. So what else matters?