Doubt grows fertile in the garden of your home.
This you know:
green thorns prick
the seat of your mind
whenever it starts to settle down.
All the days we spend on airplanes
waiting
are not as long as these.
Staring out the windows to see
yourself firmly on the ground,
going nowhere.
You spend your afternoons weeding,
digging at roots too deep to want to unearth.
Your gloves are torn;
your knuckles, bloody—
The flowers you yourself plant
bloom and die, year by year;
you do not feel the change.
Inside brings you to dishes and dust
dinners in silence
cries of your other of all that could have been,
all you could have been.
And you close your eyes, at last
though you know it will not quell the unrest,
not ease the unease.
Small seeds sprout buds in the dark.
