
My militant mind reels,
victorious over sleep,
now warring with the words—
I grapple, attempting to find
the right ones,
the ones I left behind in dreams
or at war with other chores,
so in these early hours,
during a brief cease fire,
I stop
watch the sky
begin to pink
in the east.
I do not want to wish
yet it is easy,
to think
to want
to believe
I have Samson’s strength
to break this encasement
of fear of longing,
this fear of loss.
Others say
nothing ventured
nothing gained —
I used to think that way
before the drought
came and withered
hope away before
any intercession
could be made
and that thing
inside became like
the stalks of an orchid
shedding the petals of spent,
exhausted blossoms,
thin and dry as parchment paper,
falling, drifiting to the floor,
leaving the stalk empty.
I may wish to reach my hand,
twitching with something
resembling longing,
to the eastern horizon,
where I imagine you
warm and dreaming still
but fear cements me still,
fear of longing
fear of loss
for that place inside
cradles no hope
for green stalks
holding buds
yielding blossoms.