I Can Only Carry You


I wanted to tell the street,

the tar, the grass, the blue,

the morning you died.


The crows, the wasps,

the bees and butterflies

already knew.


The roots of the earth

did not embrace your ashes

nor did the sky,


just the wings that

soared in between the

sweetness, beauty, and grief.


I was wrong to believe this

world to be your only one

or that I would bloom in you.


Your life was a darker fruit

with rains that fell cold

with your sadness and tears.


I could neither make you happy

nor save you— just love where you

rooted and carry you when you fell.


I can neither eat the honey pollinated

in the knot of your stunted tree,

just endure the stings of coming grief,


nor dip my hand into the freezing creek

that floods your lonely roots

without losing my heart.


I just can weep, grieve, try to sleep

on the other side of the bank among

the broken reeds and mud.