this life i lead

up late, working late, back aches,
it’s already past my bedtime
and i’m not finished yet.

hand work, piece by piece,
busy work or works of art
i wish i knew the difference.

and then these words
bubble up to the surface
the way they will
when i forget to watch the pot,

songs and syllables that boil over
and make a mess

one that will stay there for days.


night owl, always
wandering through the dark
with no light

feeling my way
along the path i’ve worn
in these floorboards

in this room, in this house, in this life

with one impatient peony
in the garden

already bloomed and withered

before any of the others
have even begun

to open.

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