Struggling Hard

Struggling Hard

(“He could see that the disciples were struggling hard, because they were rowing against the wind. Not long before morning, Jesus came toward them.” Mark 6:48a)

It was my mistake to presume such a common phrase
would tune your understanding to match my own. I own
my words.

It was my sleepless dreams that made the darkness seem
void, a rubbery mass of scratchy canvas, on which I attempted
 to write the greatest work I would ever begin.

To drop a phrase, the haze shrouded the wind from my apprehension,
and I collected mistake after mistake along the skimming surface.
I could no longer argue that I was young, that I was unspun without
filters to block words I wish I hadn’t wasted.

But there I went, dropping the bait, and it smelled like yesterday’s
salmon in the sun. Combined like wine and gasoline
my words were rendered useless; cuisine nor boats dotting the river,
could stop my tears from quivering once I heard my words

Placed on the plate and served back to myself.

Oh, take the wind again, and store it away behind the hills
along the river. Gather the gusts that prove I am helpless against
the wind or tide, day and night I’ve tried to render my offhand pointers
harmless (but the soil in which the seed is born knows better
the foliage that has borne no fruit, and is sterile by the time
another generation is ready to be harvested.)

If you would gather fruit, common as wild blackberries,
beware the thorns. I can only hope sweet was deep enough
to brave the prickly. I can only pray the nectar remained
upon your tongue like primary words in a young-readers
repetition.

Come, my Best, and see my strain. My words
are dust, and my fruit crumbles from the pain I hoped
would turn it sweet again.