Your roots reach deep into the earth just as your stalks stretch toward the sky.
You exist in the hovering space between,
your full-moon eyes ever trained on the horizon.
A cold front has swept in with the new year,
reminding you that this is the season for cultivating small pleasures,
for planting hardy vegetables
A patrol car slips by your house on your quiet street
The snapping, snarling hounds have disappeared into the night
The pages of your book are filled with sadness
Yet you read them over and over in hopes that the words will shift,
arrange themselves into a hymn
We are looking back on ourselves
And we can now burn the past,
or decorate our houses with it.
You need friends and not lovers.
You need warmth where now there is only the wind across the plains.
You are searching for treasure in liquid and dirt,
you are building a false monument to pleasure.
There is no moon to shine through your window tonight.
Your heart is trapped in a collection of songs by a bellowing troubador
whose permission you ask to drive 500 miles for a kiss
What good will it do you?
The stars shall fall along their same trajectories as ever
and you shall be no closer to an answer.