Day 17 – Sick Day

There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-

so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.

I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel

heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.

There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,

a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.

“Am I getting lost?”

I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,

and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.

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Ghosts

Heavy as fruit on the branch,
pulled downward,
a soul can fade, poisoned with ghosts.

Helpless as sea grass afloat,
tossed about,
a soul can waste, menaced by ghosts.

Who is so strong to resist
that longing
for what we have never seen?

What is the seed, planted deep,
that ever insists
on a thing we must need?

Who is the arbiter
granting ghosts form,
and when,
and why is he sleeping for me?

For if I were born without a head
I should not miss it like this.

Desire, be gentle with me who admires
but dares not to hope anymore.

Desire, be gentle with me who only aspires
to love no ghost anymore.

Year 2: Day 148 – What Happens To The Seed

What happens to the seed-
encapsulated, shut-tight world of its own,
and everything is ok and small and safe,
and nobody knows what swims around inside,
what tumults are writhing inside-
what happens when it hits the ground?

What happens to the seed
when it’s time to be and to do-
when gently its fresh green stems slip out,
a slow violence despite what the seed would try
to reign in, to hold dear, what feared death
it would desperately try to prevent-
what happens when the seed
can no longer be?

To be anything of purpose,
the seed must always die,
must endure being slowly ripped apart,
its crumbled shell discarded,
to be nothing once again.

But what happens to the seed
when its soul has poured out
and has stretched its aching sinews
to the sun?