The Softness of My Heart Is Often Something I Loathe

 

I see you in fields of daffodils 

And him in lavender skies. 

Drawn to the ocean, 

And the bottom of teacups, 

My mind wanders to the little tree resting in my woodland.

 

Some likeness we share, 

Solitary standing and breathing all the same. 

My frail arms have too held those that vanish in the night, 

Like the leaves that tumble to the earth 

And crumble into dust. 

But soldiering through each crippling lonely winter, 

The tree continues to rise upwards, 

And beyond. 

 

Such strength, such great resilience; 

Traits I do not believe myself to possess. 

The softness of my heart is often something I loathe. 

But to shut my whirling emotions 

Tight in a box with padlock and iron key, 

Is something I cannot force my hand to do. 

 

Shop windows and train mirrors have seen sights all too familiar, 

Of my quivering mouth gasping for air, 

And knotted cobwebs tangled through my hair. 

 

I meander cobbled streets in an aimless trance, 

Looking for white lilies, or a thumb to hold. 

But, alas, 

My tired eyes search until the air blows cold. 

Then I’ll walk home alone, 

Up to my chimneys and gate, 

To greet my little tree. 

- e.a.w