I called myself a man (which I think
I am) so I could talk about how good
the crying feels now I’ve learned to let it.
Some days it’s as simple as the way
the clouds dry, a watercolor wash set
down against the great nothing, in colors
I choose not to name. I’ve feared my life
transpiring without me. Revelations
I’ve been too stubborn, or too afraid.
I missed two good friends’ weddings,
caught in the silk of my own misery.
We pretend we don’t need one another’s
love on our skin. It’s how little I laughed
some years. I love the ones I didn’t know
were coming, lenient clovers. But I also
love the jonquils I waited for all winter,
each one an orange candle, another wish.
For all I’ve missed. For everything to come.
The way all feelings come and go, like rain,
which changes the very color of living things.