I am awake ransacking the basement and finding only
that there is less space between each thing than I imagined.
Someone I love and someone I resent are asleep tonight
in the same city and I am thinking of both. Somewhere else
a gardener tends the first of the Spring tomatoes
stroking lightly the still-greening fruit while a song
rises up in his chest. If I knew the words I would sing them
to you. Maybe it is something about the lover of his youth
returning home in the deeps of Winter and shaking off
her shoes before the fire. Or maybe it is a mother’s
lullaby tucked into a quiet surrender. O! There are far too many
places and stories to keep track of. So I have written them down
each in their place—the gardener penciled in beside
the time I met God on the back of an Eastbound train.
And I wonder if God had tended the garden
would the tomatoes be any greener? Would we be
any closer to forgiveness? I am asking only because
I am again searching for love’s perfect difficulty.
I am asking only because you know about such things.
God forgive me, I have fallen in love with you.
J. David is from Cleveland, Ohio and serves as poetry editor for Flypaper Magazine.