Day 351 – Garden

when i was young i never
wrote a poem i didn’t hold
some kind of vigil for
some patch of dirt in the garden
holding space to nurture a seed

i thought that every hurt and
every cheap, sadistic laugh
was worth a spot
but i was pouring salt in the earth
more often than not

i’ve learned some poems
must be killed
and burned–
no candles lit for stretching bones
no fanfare needed
when something temporary dies

i grow because my feelings don’t
i learn to let them stay small
inconsequential without power
without struggle, without words

and then they pass as all things do
and blow away and let me sit
in my garden full of things
i’m tending to

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