You are turning away again,
you know you are.
Call it what you will –
balancing the check-book, work,
sock-matching-sock tucked one inside the other,
there, there, almost done.
You check your email often,
tell yourself surely there is more,
something else that needs tending.
Meanwhile, right there,
just outside the glass and
watching with shy eyes from the shadows
of the old yew that needs cut back again
to let in the light, there is something –
asking to be looked at,
asking to be spoken.
It will not be revealed without tenderness.
It will not scream for your attention
or grab your knee like your brother used to
creeping down the stairs
and crawling under the Yamaha while you
repetitiously practiced scales.
This will be a slow unveiling.
Stand very still.
Wait. Listen. Ask.
Maybe now you will say
warm breeze, or good morning,
or sunshine on opening tulip. Then slowly, tenderly
you might rename each thing, one by one by one,
a crescendo of words pouring from your lips, glorious and unending…
and there will be no pain as your heart rips open.