I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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I have foisted my life upon this room.
Stacks of books line the walls like
sandbags. The barrel chair by the
window holds my shape
and the oils from my hair and skin.
My footprints stay in the hard
carpet: archaeological evidence of
a man of average height and weight
who covered every corner of the room
when he paced. And what of the closet
door on which I carved a poem about
lost love, drunkenness, and the ocean?
It stands like the redwoods,
while I have passed through years of
small triumphs, little battles, and
I suppose I am leaving something here —
less ambitious than pyramids,
far less beautiful than hanging gardens.
Someone shall find me someday,
tidy up, paint over me, reupholster me,
wash over the footprints like a tide,
and make it clean for the next