that deadened fingernail
first damaged long ago
not quite a lifetime but
time enough
          to feel that way
is showing signs of regrowth
partially shrouded but visible
beneath the lingering ruin
the fingertip was caught
ensnared and pressed
more firmly than
          could be endured
though care was provided
the bruising ran deep
and undermined any chance
of this body's repair
unexpectedly
          and unimaginable
in spite of this layer
of lamented keratin
there stretched forth
a sudden burgeoning
a crescent of cuticle
          and lunula
telling of the strength
of the fingernail to come

each new green shoot,
shot to hell and back
with a silver barrelled gun
and razed to the ground
with the surface of the sun
is benevolent
to the poor earth

These dry bones
once fit together strong
while time flowed one way:
on

That current held surprise
that knocked joints off guard
and a lied about collapse
occurred

Their ham fist could grip limbs
and clunk them together
in a fruitless pulse,
for what?

The trunk and branch
of what’s to come
must be reseeded
mulched and nurtured,
maintained root to crown
in different growth
or the same clown gardeners
will bring us down

We built this house. We eat watermelon on the floor, spitting seeds across a shooting range measured by the planks in the floor.

We built this house. We spill barbeque sauce while trying to make pizza and lick it from each other like wild animals, we are free.

We built this house. We drink our coffee cold. We’re too busy looking at each other to drink it hot. I guess we’re admiring the temperature of each other instead.

We built this house. My eyes are the color of the garden you gave me, watered by the April showers of tough times. Flowers come in spring.

We built this house. Your eyes fell from the stars, your dreams stayed there, never to come back down.

We built this house. We dance in our underwear as we pack away our scars, the scars that don’t scream,

we can walk away from this quietly.

We have never loved each other more than this moment, but now this moment has passed. We sit across from each other in more April showers, flowers come in spring. We sit on the wrong sides of the table. Packing our scars into separate boxes, they scream. We keep them quiet.

If Christ can move stone to forgive our sins, why can’t we?

Rip open the scars that scream, pack them with the dirt of a grave, you are ready to let them die. You are ready to plant seeds. Flowers come in spring. We don’t wait for healing to find us. We have risen from the ground and better **** well act like it. You water flowers, not leave. Regrowth happens in spring.
We are spring.
We are spring.

We built this house.

i dug my patch of dirt
with my fingers in repentance

this formality before the hurt
this action my penance.

like these roots that roam
far beyond their means

this heart can't be home
to any semblance of honesty it seems.

with the soil                              a cradle
weighing me down
i see a vision of a mottled crown
the coldness seeping in
and for growth to start somewhere within.

You are the pioneer
after the fire,
with silver-grey and
blue-green leaves,
pods filled with seeds,
and brilliant yellow
flowerheads.
When you lived in the
mountains, you were
dressed in white-
lichen and snow.

The garden of Eden is no place for fools, but you somehow made your way in
Every step tainting the very ground you walk on, every touch turning flowers and trees to stone
If only you left this place alone
My home
My sanctuary
Is not for you to own
Yet you still weild a trowel and rip up all that I have honed
But what you don't know
Is that I am not helpless
Just because you are destructive doesn't mean I can help myself less
Less than, is all you see me as
Not realizing that I'm more than just a piece of ***
Take a step back
And look at the mess you think you've made
Invading the beautiful glade I call my own
A garden now made of stone
Cold and heartless regardless of the sun shining down
Turns out that sun is now covered by rain clouds
Thunder booming loud
Turn around
See the rain pouring, hear its sound,
Are you proud?
Of all that you have done
You, a hurricane, just having a little fun
But now its time for you to run
Tracking mud over the path of which you came from
But little do you know
That one day you will atone
And that one day
This garden, now of stone
Will, over time, be eroded by the rain
And will return to the mud you have created
Left to regrow, on its own, once again.