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.