This is a poem I've been writing for more than 10 years. Somehow, today seemed like a good time to try it again. I'm messing around with commas and mdashes in this one too, so if you have comment on the punctuation please let me know.
The Space In Between
I tell myself the crows
broke the bird bath
or the gale or snow—
a terracotta stream of debris
glazed with cream and verdigris
flows now
between wands of black astilbe
withered Virginia bluebells
a cracked calligraphy
of vinca. It was not neglect.
Sometimes we forget
(we sip coffee eat elephant wings)
that we ever drove each other crazy with our grief—
and whose turn it is to give. Unlike our mothers
who were born wanting and died of it
the birds seem not to miss the font,
if I scatter seed they come.
If the bowl is gone
there are other sources of water,
they don’t care much,
they’ll still lard the trees all winter.
When the ground goes soft
I’ll haul out the broken pedestal.
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