Proper Sowing

Some things are meant to be.
We planted trees of robust frustration
in the fallow shaded in evening light.
We resolved to keep tight lipped
about the business. After all,
nobody else would be affected,
and the less anyone knew, the better.
The wetter season arrived
like the chime of an antique clock,
echoing through the dim corridors
of a château given wholly
to being forgotten. We had a lot more
to worry about in those days.
The haze of poorly phrased platitudes
created a nauseous curtain around us,
and we couldn’t decide whether to puke
or tough it out like the soldiers
we envisioned ourselves to be.
When the trees finally erupted
from the sleepy ground,
I could make out, faintly, the sound
of diamonds breaking.
There was a quaking in my heart,
and no part of me was fit to stop it.

-r. miller

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