Today I write poems.
The hard ones.
The worst and best to write.
Regret at how I hurt you
as you were so little
while my fears were so big
and so looming.
I am sorry.
I am fool enough to think
these words may be enough.
Looking out the window
at the fog that got us both,
I know this is how you, feel, too—
lost, unseeing.
I don’t know when you will understand
and shake off your winter coat
and run, orange fur escaping into the sun
and meadows I kept you from.
Go now, I pray.
Your bruisings I will hold in my heart, I hope,
if allowed,
so you may be free
from this tumbleweed field
where I birthed you,
where my eyelashes are becoming weighted down
by dust.
Go, go, and remember the best of us.
This is gutting, but also has a definite tenderness, too. Sometimes the poems that are the hardest to write and cost us the most to create, are also the ones that really say the unsayable most clearly.
ReplyDeleteI would make a better comment, but the election has left me wretchedly depressed.
Poignant, visually stunning and emotional.
ReplyDeletepenned with grace and eloquence, Jen ~
ReplyDeleteLovely write...
ReplyDelete