Loving is not the sum of wishes brought to fruition.

No book can fully convey the nuances of longing,

or how wishing continues long after it has come true,

how the pain of seeing weeds and wounds can unravel dreams.

 

I dreamed of you

but all my imaginings

were leaves in the wind

insubstantial, 

and beholden to the elements and seasons.

Only living as long as they are connected to roots,

fed by dedicated cultivation,

and given room to grow.

 

I prepared for you

But no amount of study could ready me 

for the reality of living with you.

each tired morning

each night of fighting

    the pervasiveness of loneliness;

each perception check against my projections:

disappointments stacking like bricks in the wall

we never thought we’d build in the middle of love’s garden.

 

I am not what you wished for.

Could not, will never be.

And you are not what I hoped.

Wishes live not in this complicated world.

Hopes are only for those too conditioned to act

and too afraid to actually change.

But we are still, again and again choosing to be here

even as the coating wears off

and the cracks show.

We might have to dig up the foundation

to build a house that will last,

one careful moment of tenderness

at a time.

We might have to let go of what we think we want

or deserve

to meet each other on the solid ground,

in the real world.

To plant seeds we will have to carefully tend through the season of darkness

that precedes each revelation

and thus, be delighted by the beauty of Spring,

as the saplings push through

the cracks in the thawing wall

wearing it away until it becomes a frame:

a foundation for the new life to come. 

 

Ground is white.

from snow or salt I cannot tell.

How we compensate for weather 

without considering the causes 

 

and blessings

 of climate.

 

Sky shifts.

one shade of grey to another,

even the layers of glass cannot keep the bleak out.

 

For a reason, the world sleeps.

for a season, color vacates

and warmth is a dream remembered,

of easier times.

A thing saved for tropical climes.

Nothing can live forever.

Even the Sun rests.

In our myths,

   the Sun always dies.

as all heroes, curious of what the Underworld knows.

 

Pluto, the keeper of that cavernous place

 laughs at attachments,

mocks our silly attempts to hold onto life

like something tangible.

Winter reminds us that life is a circle,

Color is ephemeral,

and Fire knows when to go out.

And when to stay in.

 

As babes in wombs dream of the children they will become,

as seeds in ground envision their eventual blossom and fruit,

so we dream our awakening,

so we hang on to promise.

Through deep layers and long shadows.

Through haze of grey on grey,

white on white,

day on day.

Through the illusion of nothing

and the great numbing waste.

 

Don’t pour salt on your roads.

Let the snow slow you down.

Let the ice remind you

how precious each step,

how precarious each moment.

Move just enough aside

to prepare the soil

for the new life to come.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry