Catastrophe Jones

I will grow.
I am this thing that is
still green.
So many tell me I am
done,
fruited,
blossom withered
dropped and gone
at best
but I still feel I am a seed
still feel the roil of potential,
the strange buzz of anticipation,
trembling in wait.

I am shrouded
in the wet dark,
buried
yes,
but not dead, no,
just dreaming,
dreaming,
dreaming of the sun
and the day I will rise,
green and curled
and coming undone
and becoming,
with a flourish.

You don’t have to wait for me,
if you don’t want to —
you don’t.
I will bear the blossom and fruit for myself
if I must,
but I do imagine
it will all be the sweeter to share,
even if the wait was longer
than anyone intended.

How we bend
and bow
and scrape,

trees in the wind,
lashing limbs
ready to claw open the sky

and let it bleed rain
let it run down,
let it soak us in the numbing cold.

How we furiously shriek when offended,
when turned in the storm
and left to quiver.

How we wail.
How we weep.
What happens

when the fight between us
and the weather has blown out?
What vicious thing will next find its wind?

I think
Emily knew some things,

like how the winter light was different,
sometimes.

I think
of her whenever I feel the silversun,

brightcold,
instead of softwarm.

The harshness of
winter’s glare somehow both dull and sharp,

the unending grey
sky.

She knew
what it looked like;

I could have made a friend in her,
I imagine,

because
before I ever saw her words,

or
heard them,

I knew them in my own head,
I knew them in my own heart

Brevity is
the soul of wit, and perhaps
that’s because it’s so much smarter
to wait
for more information
before
you open your own mouth.
Foolish things tumble out
before your tongue can
catch them,
put them back,
unsay them
before
they’re said.
I know I know I know I know
I know
I am made of words
but perhaps
sometimes I should be made
of silence.