By Les Wicks.
It takes a certain bravery
or blindness perhaps.
I gave so much away
but still the clutter.
When I said
there was this fear my lover listened.
Growth grows on one.
On an empty day
with storm & vehemence
I had plenty.
But wanted so much more
as a chilly martyr longs for any blaze.
My friend who was dying
said I guess we’re all dying.
How can we not smile
though our lips are porous borders
& transition is perpetually perilous.
So me, this miserable kid
somehow got to his sixties.
My fields are stubbled
though perimeter trees throw petals
as if vacancy is victory.
New seeds already take root.
Fences are a joke
my lover just strides in.
Forgiveness out, then in. Harvest.
All this is
though nothing is
limitless.
