the gardens we meant to plant
sometimes i need a helicopter to hover over my head,
send down a rope and get me out of all this choppy, clustered water.
because sometimes the days get weak and trudge with too many excuses,
the sun seems to set on every lingering hope
and i can’t seem to tug at my bootstraps anymore
can’t stand the sight of my cliche knuckles, too white, too cracked
and there are days when all my eyes can see is the smallness everything,
nights that my body can’t sleep,
because i’m in cheapest room of my heart, an attic with cobwebs,
with walls coming undone,
and i’ve been trying to sleep, but my legs toil with dreams undone
i wrestle with cotton sheets, the in-between night and day
my heart repeats:
there’s got to be more than grace before meals
and prayers before bed.
and so i take two aspirin and study the geography of a new storyboard
one that the world hasn’t yet seen,
press my binoculars to a plot line that has yet to be invented-
a story where the angels fight hard for us, lift us out of dusty places
hold our hands, kiss our foreheads, keep us warm.
a story where the dangerous ones, the not-a-sure-bet ones,
the messed up good like me get the best love of all
they get to wear new coats of honor, new hats of truth
they get new faces of dignity, scare away the curses of a dead life
and when it becomes clear, when the ink meets the paper, the plot falls into place, i say:
hold out your hands, let’s give each other the seeds
so we can start the gardens we meant to plant
before we got hurt and broken and bruised long ago
hold out your hearts, let’s give each other the keys
that set us free
