The Neighbor
A cool, quiet Sunday morning.
A man in his yard, just being.
Tending to small things:
The free book box,
A sprig of mint,
My cat’s curious stare.
Then a neighbor appears,
A storm cloud in a clear blue sky.
Hard eyes, a voice already raised,
Judgment spilling from a soul gone bitter.
He sees only the surface:
The slowed gait,
The scars I wear,
Not the man beneath:
The poet.
The fire that’s traveled far
Through silence, through despair.
But I stand.
Still a man in his yard.
Shattered once,
Still holding shape.
I write of beauty and its opposite,
Of ache,
Of the weight we carry,
Of the messy, glorious stain
That proves we were here.
That we remain.
