This Garden

You dream of gardens and
wake with the daylight already
just looking for someday soon,
I find every reason to be disbelieving
that someone could be like you–
I tend to forget and disappear but
while you dream of watering flowers
I dream of keeping you like this
you’re already the sun in
this garden of ours

Words Fail

It was wrong for so long,
how can I say sorry
when all we did was try?

I’ve been silent so long,
how could I say thanks
for giving me part of your life?

There’s a letter buried somewhere–
I never sent it for fear
it’d sound like lies–
just so many conflicting things
and all of them true.

There was something I hoped
in time you’d see
when you found someone
much better suited than me–
how I couldn’t keep the faith
once I understood.

There was plenty I hoped
you’d forgive me for,
though once you saw it
there’d be no need,
and mostly now I just hope
you don’t think about me.

It was wrong for so long,
how can I convey thanks
for walking me all this way?

I’ve been silent too long
to send letters anymore
since words fail, anyway.

Eggshells

The things I forget in my 30’s are things
I just learned a couple of weeks ago–
would you believe nobody ever told me
how to keep myself?

I’m always waking up one day
to find me slipping, to find me gone
and a big mess of everyone else
standing in my place.

And the only way to get me back
is to stop and get very selfish,
to pluck and pull me back out of
the hands I put myself into

because I shrank to save my sanity
I kept doing it to keep the peace
and now the ground feels foreign
when the eggshells are swept away.

It’s late but I am learning how
to tidy up my floors–
it’s more like medicine now
to keep me alive without a war

but the things I forget in my 30’s are things
some people never know
so I’m composting all those eggshells
and watching my garden grow.

Questions

How many songs did Elliott write in the moment
knowing they’d be old news in the morning?

Did he wake up embarrassed about
the demons he was letting out?

And how many songs about pain will I write
knowing I can’t heal as fast as I’d like?

Do I disregard all prudent advice
each time I continue to roll the dice?

How many times can you listen to this story
covering the same familiar territory?

How long am I going to be this way,
longing for love and then pushing it away?

Am I what they warn young people of
when they caution against those who cannot love?

How can I write a poem and then take it back,
enjoying the sun ’til it all turns black?

And just who am I when the clouds descend?
What is it that controls when the storm will end?

How old was I when they threw me in
to a life-long war that I’ll never win?

Am I going to die like a falling star
or trapped like an ant inside the bell jar?

How many songs did Elliott write in the moment
knowing they wouldn’t hold up in the morning?

And how many poems about pain will I write
before I wake out of these fitful nights?