Our garden is overgrown.
The grass is tall
and weeds choke out the sun.
We stand here in the shade
looking for a path
through all of this,
seeing, how, in our innocence,
and frightened of aloneness,
we held each other’s hearts too tight,
and now,
it hurts so deep in us,
this holding on,
we cannot speak.
The fruit you offered me
that afternoon was good--
the light shining in our eyes,
on our eager faces,
the laughter as we ate.
I followed you with my soul,
and we worked
and loved
and watched our children playing
in the garden,
unashamed.
But here we are—
standing on this dusty ground,
looking here and there for a way
to make this garden sweet again
and stop the pain.
I cannot say just how and why
the time has come to this,
or why a voice from the garden calls to you
and another calls to me,
voices we can’t ignore
and must obey.
I only know that seeing what we’ve grown
strangling here in front of us is difficult,
but so is holding on,
so is this burning at the bottom
of my throat--this ache
to feel refreshed and light again.
And so we stand,
not knowing where to go,
unable to hide from the ragged edges
of our lives,
the ripping sound,
the peeling off
and spilling out—
the pain.
I look at you as I turn to go—
at your stiffness,
your hollow eyes,
the lines at the corner of your mouth,
at our garden dying—
and think about the dreams we had
when we awoke
and ran down these paths
throwing seeds.