in unattended weeds
of perverse suspicion
flooded the summer
and thus we fell
among cryptic texts
unanswered calls
and nights turning
into suspicious morning
routines of angry gardening
together tearing
at the hearty stalks
and thus the bed
became warm with loss
and rich with fingers
and thus a thin fire culled our lives
vigorously, almost professionally
so therefore Jesus spoke
a new wood, sending me
a preserver, a new soil
my impoverished angel
tossing seed, so I could eat alone
be punishingly alive
tending to a new shoot
Friday Writings #240: Despair and Delight