You didn’t know, did you,
that every little thing you did
grew up again somewhere?
Every broken toy, every
failed letter where the stamp
fell off; every cry of joy,
each tiny bit of ecstasy
when a response came back to you
holding a single word — “yes”.
All the letters, the phone calls,
the one glance meant to show meaning
that you held a little longer
than one would expect; each
passing, knowing blink;
each tear and sob, each answer
only diffidently granted.
They all were collected;
they were planted; they held you
responsible for all of it —
even the things you didn’t know
you’d meant.
Would you have done them
differently had you known?
You will do them so differently now,
of course. You will cut down
the overgrowth of your life
and see clearly, look back on it
more or less fondly, clearly —
and then will come that time when you look back
and see the weeds sprouting.
It will not end, will it —
the growth, the regrowth,
the bushes rising from the stubble.
So: you’ll sigh. It’s morning again,
after all; daybreak over your
inadvertent garden is here again.
You will clench and unclench your fists
as you try to pull out the brambles —
and at some point, you’ll give up.
At some point you will choose
to celebrate this, the weeds growing next
to the blooms. You’ll choose;
it is promised to you. It will come
as surely as violets will return
and the moon will rise again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
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