Forgive me. I have tried
to fix you. To be salve,
or more practically, glue.
As if you were not a man
but a leaky bucket
beneath the rain spout.
Or a cattail with its soft
creamy seeds spewing out.
I’ve abandoned my box
of tools. I no longer believe
in fixing you. My love,
the world is falling.
My love, nothing
is for sure. We
are rain water
in leaky buckets.
We are slowly
spilling seed.
My new practice—
to be here with you
as the field accepts
both rain and sun,
as the tree leaves
meet the wind.
Here’s where I love how the poem gathers itself around this idea:
“My love, nothing
is for sure. We
are rain water
in leaky buckets….
I wonder if you really ought to be “turning in” your tools, as that implies you’re doing the fixing for someone else, as as assignment, which is not the you in the poem. You could just “abandon” it, or something more personal, less job related.
This is without question the finest description ever of how we love, love too hard, and love while limping. RA sent me this the day you wrote it and I sent it to one for whom you wrote this poem, but did not know him.
You wrote this for all of us. And we all cry to see ourselves in such a mirror.