YOU THERE, with all of your angst and longing, the wrestling and the groans and your heavy sighs: Hold onto it all, collect it on pages and in jars Let it burrow a little bit deeper. IT is all a tired, grumpy, old man in his elbow patches and tweed, puckered lips and wrinkles on his face like roads on a map.
And I bet if you sat across from him and stared at him instead of looking away, If you talked to him when he didn't respond and you spoke when you would rather just get up and leave, You might find a story or two. Some truth in that tea time [oh but it is so awkward- like our twelve-year-old legs in gym class- sitting there, staying with him].
OH little tree. That burrowing is your roots digging its fingers into Earth [life and living and all of the things that grow], And it pushes down for you, it struggles downward And you feel your branches grow stronger, grow blooming, discovering SPRING.