a poem about a poem: it’s hard to say what we really mean

Photo by Jack Ward on Unsplash

it’s something i wrote in maybe
twenty minutes
from a scrap heap of beautiful abandoned words
the ones we forget about
until confrontation

honeydew hope
such cowardice
afternoon catharsis
a dew-filled
dusk
death
evening flower!
grow without me!
blood blood blossom
crawl along the
bones
slight and small
susurrous sounds
a garden twilight
rebirth

i was thinking about death
and the agony of living
but it was also a tuesday afternoon
gray sunlight peeking in
to a decorated room
my family scattered
through the house
such wealth
but still the ache
the poem came close to catching it
but it’s
effervescent butterflies
and a moth-eaten net
it’s
the space between love
and longing
it’s
my honeyed tongue
and my winter lips
pressed against the chill
numb grasping fingers
desperate for shelter
unable to hold
but
maybe these are circles
treads worn down
in familiar paths
but
maybe
i just mean to say
that i am afraid
and it hurts
and i’d like to be
made new