cooking pots simmer on the back burners of my mind
steaming, steaming

wordy vapors rise,
spreading syllables across my bone-dry ceiling

letter clouds are gathering

i stand below,
head raised,
mouth open,
hoping to catch the rain of inspiration

Sometimes I think myself clever,
a genius in horticulture,
harvesting perpetual fleeting moments.
A muted gardener.
Watering without promise or
sentiment.

When the air grows stale
I can disappear
(I always have),
like so many ghosts
or smoke
A nomadic farmer.

But today
I want to be
old and knotted roots.
stationary and permanent,
nourishing and timeless,
impervious to elements
so that she
might flourish.
I want to lean hard into the wind,
sway with it and
bend
while holding my
only purchase.

And when she opens up
it will be enough
and maybe for the first time
neither of us
will be
murderers of perennials.

I cut my hair for
                    nostalgic reasons
like why I told you I wear that cologne on
          special occasions

When you come home, I'll be here
looking almost the same
        but a little wiser
     and with full awareness of what I have
                full appreciation
             for you, friend

Oh, yes
    many crazy adventures await us
                 in the near future

So hurry up and come home
          so we can get started

        Time is only a number, but
   loneliness is infinite
              
                 until it ends
       and then only possibilities
     go on forever

Come back around and make me
smile when I expect clouds on the
horizon and we're instead greeted
with a warm sunny afternoon and
our dogs' laughter when they know
what we are only beginning to find
out of the bleakest fogs a welcome
to the home that lifts the spirit