There are words that wait to be written, like berries
on thorny canes. Excuses buzz and whine
around me like the gnats & mosquitoes
will if I go pick berries. There is one.
Two is the clock. It’s too early, the grass
is wet (I’ll wait); it’s too hot, the sun is
high; it’s too late, the light is fading, thick.
Day slips away, embroidered with almosts.
There is a sense of dread that rises up
with darkness, knowing in my bones’ marrow
(where it is darker than dark) that I am
incapable, inadequate. I always have,
always and forever, and always will.
The words wait. If I don’t pick them, later
I will see them, somewhere, and know someone,
someone else heard those faint sheer whisperings
in midair. Even mosquitos whine louder than
the whispers of unwritten words. I will
know those words might have been mine, and I failed
before they were born. Let them go to come again.
Or, the other. I try. I try. The last moment
finds me scribbling in resounding silence.
I hear them just a little better in darkness,
in the resounding silence in which, all asleep,
even the charging computer shrills a thin sigh.
I tried. Someone says kind words. I smile quietly,
gently; nod politely; but behind my eyes, cry.