we are too scared
to admit that
we are already dying, already dead
we are too scared
to admit that
there is more life
in a stone
than in our bones
and we are too scared
to admit that
the river has
already flooded
and already been drained
and we are too scared
to admit that
this life
that we are living
is a sack of seeds
sitting in the attic
waiting to be planted
and that
the only flowers
that grow
are the ones
we name in our dreams