passing time on a John Deere til time to go home

inside of a cocoon
a butterfly growing into something more than
the worms that were left in the
cadaverous relationships we were crawling away from
sunshine bearing down, late November.
The outside world is shielded from our notice
if we dare stop to pay attention to it even briefly
then the entire process may falter
yet again…
Damaged in a hailstorm.
Who i am, who am I and I to you and you to me
These questions frivolous
In the moment of right now.
We knew better. We did.
We both have been told, time and again
that this was not our forte,
love was not a game we could or would
or can or will win.
Still.
Your smile was infectious.
And the season was gracious with what it allowed sunlight
to do in your hair
not to mention the starbursts it’s rays gave
your eyes…
Or was that me, shining inside your soul?
Forgive me if I say it was
If I take credit for once for something only
heavenly deities normally gather accolades for
I saw the future there…
in those eyes.
Crisp cold days like that though
only give birth,
a natural birth I might add,
to even colder ones
and soon that twinkle would die out
And your eyes would go placid
like the surface of the lake
on the coldest, stillest morning.
it’s a movie flashback in my head now…
of course, I’ve been running your lines alone
for so long now that
you sound just like me;
when the phone does ring,
rare as that may be,
I’m gleeful at the sound of you, stranger:
you read your lines much better than I ever could.
Everything in life is so systematic in the end:
we swear we will know better next time
we reach deep into ourselves and slap the innocent face
and tell it to wise up and grow up and
think straight and for god’s sake pay attention this time
all for naught.
The holiday decorations are going to
come right back out of storage
and be hung with care one by one
whether we sit and watch it happen or not.
We are creatures of habit, this is how
we know right from right
and wrong from wrong and
the answers to the real mysteries in life like
“does a bear shit in the woods?”
so that when the tough questions are asked
we have something, anything at all,
to say.
The intersection of worlds and lives and hearts and thoughts
goes on
carries on
with little input from the supporting cast:
they are just passing time while the main players
deliver lines in a rehearsal for a show that never even makes
opening night.
Excuse me if I clutch my ticket;
If I hold out hope for a revival sometime soon even if the production
completely shuts down without my consent.
I’ll read on, for both of us.