If
sunsets dawned
and
the ground crunched overhead
it
would make more sense.
If
time crawled slowly backwards
I
could happier rest in this confusion.
Instead
the world moves on as it has before,
and I
sit at a loss for words.
That
never happens.
Ask
anyone I know,
and
they will tell you the truth about me.
My
words pour forth ceaselessly until I ran
into
country named but unknown,
a
map drawn but unseen.
Love
is the drink untasted
but
craved from birth.
The
morning glory that grows
and
will not die,
no
matter how many stalks I pull
from
the reaching soil that is within me.
It cannot
die,
nor
is it sated but by a glimpse
of
the object of its colors.
It
blooms unbidden, unwanted,
a
weed that is yet more precious
but
for the very one for whom it spreads its petals.
A
friend of my heart was all I wanted.
When
was it that you slipped
the
seedlings into my cup?
How
did you call forth
the
bud that first sprang up in me?
And
the strangest of all, why do you stand
opposite
me,
with
that look on your face
like
you know nothing of what I’m saying?
I
offer you these blossoms
which
you yourself watered.
Why
then will you not take them?
Heart
of my heart,
you
have renamed yourself to me.
Or
do you find it strange that you
could
be loved by me,
an
unlikely and unexpected effect
of
your green thumb?
Come
then,
and
uproot this plant
you
have so tenderly nursed to life.
Choke
this weed
you
have so unwisely grown,
or
see me as I am.
Helpless
flowerpot.
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