02/01/2023
💕 Forag(H)er
If I could
I would forage for my fear,
collect the pieces
from the forest floor;
pondered,
preserved,
put them in a jar.
—forever less foreboding
as withered little fruits.
Because I cannot,
aimlessly
I acquire:
mushrooms,
mosses,
berries in a basket...
none to feed
you.
If I could
I would scrape away the shame,
like the pine sap strips
from frozen cedar bark;
glistening,
golden,
gripped by my knife.
—eternally scented effigy,
sticky grit of life.
Because I cannot,
instead
I inquire:
of trees,
of tracks,
small nuances to notice...
shared not with,
you.
If I could
I would gather my grief,
grasp tightly the segments
off the ground;
rigid,
rooted,
held in my arms.
—mottled dirt-stains memorializing
what earth already knows.
Because I cannot,
regularly
I require:
empathy,
energy,
a bittersweet wax and wane...
outstretched toward,
you.
If I could,
I would pluck away my past,
like the wild rose petals
pulled from thorny stem;
delicate,
detailed,
wrapped warmly by my palm.
—tiny kites tethered,
by wind-trails untraced.
Because I cannot,
inexpertly,
I expire:
regret,
restraint,
guilt served religiously inside...
forgotten for,
you.
©️ December 2020
