up half the night, trying to tune him out
as he attempts to correct my flaws.
the correction, in time, is about
to arrive; so, it should obey His laws.
There’s no need to panic; all is not lost,
but, even if it were, this does no good,
compounding the night—what this would cost,
if worry accomplished what it should.
Muddled thoughts, too, are a waste of time,
grasping for answers that prove nothing—
necessarily rethought, once cleared of my crime,
needing, like anyone, to remember His ring,
and allow, temporarily, for His space.
I must work, for a time, unconsciously:
that’s where puzzles, ultimately, find their place,
without leaving us in dire anxiety,
which leads to burnout, and no achievement.
But can i help it if my love would insist?
I can’t assume that, for him, i’m meant,
if he continues to treat what I resist,
the entrapment of our wounded pride.
Now, i go a little in his direction,
giving him the benefit of what i hide—
a reliance on his well-trained eye,
because i love the world that he would see,
if, that is, he outlives his loneliness,
which forces him, i think, to smother me.
Anyhow, i walk, ahead, cleared of duress,
to his home, intending to resolve
the underlying problem. The landscape
there, takes shape; matter begins to evolve;
i listen for his transforming tape,
messages in a bottle, sent to me.
i pity what can’t, by itself, be saved,
as a troubled mind recounts his story,
a life that lauds what is misbehaved,
thinking that no other women exist.
How can i tell him that all love is bound
by that which, for themselves, would persist,
without punishing what can’t be found?