Daisies in Ditches
April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
My gum below the cavity throbs,
my eye has an odd red spot
and the burn on my back
from one careless bump
against the fireplace’s glass
has blistered, bled, and peeled.
What is more difficult to tolerate?
These sores, or the forever days
of empty activity,
the repetition of failure
a persistent moth of the mind?
I swat at it and miss. It crowds
the light I am so close to putting out.
The surface becomes trivial –
it hardly matters as it mends with
time, ointment, oil. A trip to the doctor.
An apple. Honey and oats. Ice. Heat. Rest.
But the soul’s salve must be hope.
Even lying, exhausted, on the cracked
floor of try, try again –
it is still possible to imagine
an old barn and stacks of hay
and a black-haired collie trotting
near my heels, along a broken fence.
There might still be daisies in ditches,
a wind vane’s slow turn, and calves
galavanting through grasses to find us
to push close and toss their heads,
to stick their noses in buckets of fresh milk.
Maybe a wedding quilt. A kitchen table.
And a hand, held out, solid and warm and kind.