Worship To Wounds

The wounded standard bearer, Hans Baer Ferdinand Hodler

Chewing leaves to thank trees.
Argues philosophy in praise of language.
Sometimes, I don’t tell him he has food in his teeth.
A quiet nest of passive aggression.
I gentle his ready at the fights he picks.
Add plains to silence and worship to wounds.
At times, allows the needle to dip below the passage of time,
waiting until the last minute,
to tell him his worth.
Sometimes I do these things.
After 15 years of marriage, there is a phenomena
of radical understanding.
A weightless tome of do’s and don’t’s extracted
from incalculable days and long forgotten arguments
about tone and enterprise.
Fighting through laughter and insecurity
to be heard, understood and proud.
The asks are not difficult, however
demand your attendance.
A clever man approaches with serenity in his hands.
Seeks out seeds of reconciliation and chocolate.
The braver the witness, the darker the chocolate.
To claim arrogance is an exercise of intentional disloyalty.
Even after looking skyward,
as the moon shines through the lagging fog,
the only sensitivities we are born with and die with, are
our boundaries.
Those happenings are either encouraged or disallowed.
Their fragility fraught with pot holes and broken glass.
Just waiting to bloody your feet at the
first break in temperature.