Planted Years Before

Planted Years Before

(“I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” 1 Corinthians 3:6)

The fingers are wringing every leftover nerve
I have. Squeezing at my head like an anaconda,
making me forget easier days. My words are limited because
the pain constricts my thoughts and restricts
my smile to grimaces misunderstood. I’d
love
to uphold my end of the conversation, but I’m
not sure what I would say.

There may be words planted years before that
have
wilted at the constant ache that hides them from
the sun.
I never make appointments; they are too easy to miss.
I am halfway to tears most days, and when conversations begin
I feel the hairs on my hands signaling I must not
violate the air around me.

Today I am tired. Weary to the bone.
Today I am hoping for someone who simply feels like home.
Today I should feel lucky to have all I need.
Today my spirit moans and spits up seeds sowed so long ago.

For a few moments I play the songs freehand and hope I haven’t
skipped a coda or stumbled overboard. I slip home as soon as
we are done. I slip home without a word. I never
minded the difficult days before that pain; I would walk through
them like an arch into another place. Now I stand silent,
and wish for a place to sit until the noise is over and
I find a new place to leave heart to hang out again.

Take this mud that cakes my heart and make it the seedbed
out of this pain. Let the shoots fight for the light while the
ache dismisses every dream I once hoped to be true. I’ll wait
until Spring.