I wanted the wrong things,
rushed about the world for them;
none of it brought me anything but pain.
I did not pray nor was I grateful for what was simple.
Today, my daughter sings to the spideog;
the garden is over-grown, wasps swarm the azalea
and a flower called self-heal blossoms in the corner
where we sat last night without talking.
Voices carry on the breeze,
the sound of a lawn-mower, and a church-bell ringing.
I stop, ask for help; I am not beyond that –
or writing about grief and repair.
So much is waiting to be done:
the sun reveals itself from the cloud-cover.
My body accepts the heat, and gratefully,
not even the siren in the distance can trouble me now,
but I wanted you to know this:
that if there were some salve for your pain,
some solace I could lend,
I would offer it to you willingly, and with love.