Reconcile

Here is the moment

when the words we’ve spun into stones,

thrown, hum like a wasp’s nest released

into our quiet canopy.

The fruit on our tree is rotting now.

We used to shelter there, one strong back

against storms, drinking its shade like wine.

Then, pebble small dissatisfactions came:

you are, you did, how could you, why would you,

I hate that you’ve twisted our love, it’s lust now,

it’s rusting our dreams.

The last wasp leaves. I see now, our vinegar tears

could make seeds for new trees or weeds.

Aren’t you tired? Our well is empty now.

We are both bleeding.

You once tread softly and needed no map.

Softly through the valleys and snow peaks in me,

the river beds and seas of soul behind my rib cage.

And I’ve forgotten you too,

how you are made of star breath and dust,

carved by God’s thumbs. I once filled a mast

with your miles, now I’m anchored at bay.

We must stop throwing stones.

Let us clean our wounds and plant a new tree.