Before you read this poem- I wrote this in no particular order. Instead of thinking about this as a timeline or story, think of it as flipping through a stack of pictures.
One
On my familiar journey,
I tell myself that the next song that I hear will tell me
How to deal with my problems, or the meaning of life.
I’m sure it would have
But I forgot to listen to the lyrics.
I agree.
Two
Most of the seeds from any tree
Will never sprout.
You could blame that on the tree they fell from.
You could blame that on the tree they fell from.
For blocking the sunlight with its canopy
And drinking all of the water.
But I would rather think of it as chance.
Three
The problem with saying:
“Everything is physics.”,
Is that the thought processes
That are used to understand that statement
Seem to negate the logic
That they use to prove it,
Right at the root.
Four
If I could, I would pull down the wind,
With the spirit of tug-of war,
And only let it blow when we want to fly kites.
I would catch all the snow,
In a spice jar,
And sprinkle it out when we have thick gloves and hot chocolate.
If we try,
Maybe we can convince the trees to grow us a home,
And the rain to water our gardens.
Five
We’ve been here long enough
That I doubt this place will ever lose our imprint.
It seems memories have,
And gain,
Weight.
Six
I was upset
When the physical world followed suit,
And for once followed the example that our souls were setting.
I was changing,
But it’s easy to miss
The familiar.
Seven
Casually,
We can denounce the holy and the horrible.
With enough red ink
There are enough mistakes that need correcting
To last us a lifetime.
However;
I warn-
Don’t forget,
That we are not the only
Or the last.
Eight
The idea of leaving
Is not one that I am opposed to.
I guess
Guilt
Is natural enough,
Which is not to say
Comfortable enough.
Nine
Money
Is an umbrella
On a very windy day.
Ten
I know
The Bumps in the road
And where the floorboards creak.
I have made friends with all of the trees
I have made friends with all of the trees
Around here.
A quarter of the dust
In these rooms
Is mine.
Eleven
We speak
Only in minor chords, and
We breathe
Only fire,
To eachother.
Twelve
We find comfort
In repetition
And that tingly feeling
Right between hope and the unknown.
