I select my spores with particular care.
I am hesitant and gentle, never
stumbling over a path with a
fumbling, inexperienced step.
And you appear, late yet again with such
unbelievable disorder, cluttering
my space with your unwavering affection.
I think I’ve finally forsaken
the art of being meticulous.
A reign of burgeoning thoughts but-
must they trail so? My folks-
they’re bound to trip.
All attempts to be careful
is lost to your chatter
for to tread lightly
isn’t really your style.
I like to garden, you know-
I like to sink my fingers
into the things I can control.
Still, you draw near
(surprisingly less late than before)
and leave your footprints all over my inventions.
Tears wash the dirt from my hands
while the litter of my careful system
tangles into our patchwork of thoughtful chaos.
I feel it, you know, all too well.
I’ll wish you could see what my world has become
while I sit forlorn in the garden one day.
Seasons will pass and I’ll tidy new thoughts
and wonder how you could miss it this time.
Perhaps my foliage won’t grow quite as well
as the budding life in your own garden, but-
then again, maybe you’re there
thinking the same of me.
In the meantime I’ll welcome the green
sprouting up in unexpected places.
I know you’ll be there around the corner
blossoming as you do
the fragrance of the earth wafting by
until we can sit under the boughs again
and reflect on how
it all propagated so quickly.
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