for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain,

when some flowers

wither too soon

and out of season

fall the blooms

cursed by wind,

or word or cold

or heat or drought

or time (most of all)

-some have tried:

a florist's hand

at natural cloth

is no match

for looms in grass

and fields of waving thread.

you died too soon

(we would say)

and no more

are your petals

and for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain.

but we, weeping, try

to bring you back

fruitless is our hand:

our vain attempt

to change the season

withers like the grass,

again.

word's aren't perfect,

and neither am i,

you can see it

in my shoes:

threads unraveled,

sole near bare,

from gravel and glass,

from running and typing;

all the lefts

and rights i spoke

only to return-

"i'm so sorry"

doesn't change at all

the fact of the trail

or the taste on my tongue

or the shame i feel

when you look down

and see the wilderness

on my feet.