She swims in tumultuous
water that churns with the tides
of melancholic rage
I scoop her in cupped
hands and drag her weary body
past the rocky shore to the soil
in the rich dirt I dig
a hole big enough for her corpse-seed
and plant her.
I am an anxious gardener
I ration my Sad Water carefully
and search the ground for decay
her roots grow down without
my eyes preying upon them
in damp dark clay.
growth is a slow moving practice.
I hope she becomes a tree.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
She swims in tumultuous
water that churns with the tides
of melancholic rage
I scoop her in cupped
hands and drag her weary body
past the rocky shore to the soil
in the rich dirt I dig
a hole big enough for her corpse-seed
and plant her.
I am an anxious gardener
I ration my Sad Water carefully
and search the ground for decay
her roots grow down without
my eyes preying upon them
in damp dark clay.
growth is a slow moving practice.
I hope she becomes a tree.
another therapy poem bc I can not retain things if I don't write about them