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.