Another poem

What is even happening? No poems for ages and then... I guess being in a hugely difficult place in one's life for an extended period of time pushes one's "tragic poet" button. I'm hoping these are not only tragic. But they come out how they come out, I suppose. Apparently my muse is not in the best of moods. 😶

back yard

you are watching lush reds fill in the flowers for spring.

even in the unseasonable cold, they come. they always come.

you are waiting for disease to grow in your body, enough

to be visible by machines. then they can treat you again.

even these deadly somethings have such need

to stay alive, like you, however they can.

today that however happens to be your body.

normally you are not such a formidable host.

you have some work to do, you have tea, a view

of chipmunks out the window. you are grateful,

though maybe not as much as you could be.

right? you could be a little happier to be alive,

couldn't you? everyone could. being alive though

sometimes doesn't feel like enough. say it:

you want the mad guarantee that you will live

ad infinitum. or maybe you just want one life

unfixed by chance and disease. even as your brain

is shutting down the concept, you crave the neverending.

cancer circles call this hope: wanting the children

to stay small, the grass to keep its green, or reds

to keep filling in flowers the color of blood.