The Pebbles Roll

Melancholy rose,
in the old days,
I’d hoped
to meet you,
onward,
gone on,

into the garden.

Now,

the sand beneath
my toes is warm
and the pebbles roll
down the sand-hills,
pushed aside
by bare feet,
and the pressing
burden, woeful,
daily borne,

of me upon my heels.

When we met,
your eyes lamented
the desert dryness,

“Drink from my soul,”

I said,

“…this drop of nectar,
glistening, shining,
and be renewed,
lay roots, and grow.”

(I hoped.)

In my love,
I thought lay coolness,
a resting place, shaded, safe,
resplendent with
the reds, yellows,
and the newness

of green shoots.

I see, now,
that the seed
of your sorrow
is rooted and barbed,
thriving amidst
the hapless tilling
of my weedy garden.

Has this made your heart hard?

Your thorns are sharper,
but you aren’t sad
at the sight
of my pitiful wounds
and reddening scars.

Those curved thorns
kept turning,

infected,
ingrown,
hurting,

as the thorns
dug deeper,
back into you.

Scarecrow-view,
burlap bindings,
desiccated
roadside
signage,

“Do not enter,”

at the scorched gates,
blackened, fallen.

Melancholy rose,
crooked and pinned
at the feathered-lapel
of a misbegotten,
scarecrowing,

gardener.


© CG Tenpenny, 2021.

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