You, a tree, in me,
over time.
If it dread, if it darken, if fall
to ruin, you will do, this too,
the next thing…over time.
Now one foot now the other. Now
late, even. I am keeper of undermined,
you are patient.
All of us, any of us, you said, I wasn’t born
this way.
I, unbuilt.
See how the thickening clouds yield light snow.
Why am I unseasonably cool?
Friend of my mind:
We restore ancient things, sweet, salt, &
bitter. We bring things back and back.
The dark is big.
I met you in the district of rain, the tears
of things. Later than we might have known,
but both still vivid.
I am in the habit of you, and sometimes
able to, my soft parts, tenderly.
Things that have to do with enlargement.
What had been required of you.
If I had not submitted, nowhere.
Also, what you yourself went through affects
interpenetration:
We investigate each other’s bearings.
Things come up between us, wide.
I am glad this journey with you, you said.
Sometimes, with you, I luminate.
Abiding.
Sarah Stemp is a poet and psychologist/psychoanalyst in New York City. She has published poetry on various topics related to the role of grief and mourning in the creation of something new.