Lion in the Garden

As you eat your eggs and bacon,
the cup of coffee steaming;
As you nibble on the toast,
smeared thick with orange marmalade;

As you contemplate the night before,
and the days, months, years behind you,
you are aware
of how badly you share

the things that matter the most.
Not from lack of trying.
No, not that.

Your words have filled the air,
filled page after page,
hour after hour, late into the night,
disappearing like fog in the morning,
under the bright sun of other’s imaginings and pasts.

You sip your coffee, strong,
slightly bitter, slightly sweet,
and wonder, as you have wondered so often,
What if?

What if those you loved felt that love?
What if they knew
the depth, the rawness, the fear……
the passion

those three words meant?
What if they knew the trueness, how
even with the flaws and mistakes,
the misstarts and madness,

you are crazy true,
unwavering, that your desire
despite the grey hair and rheumy eyes
still burns?

You sigh.
No one would believe.
No one ever has.
You are too quiet perhaps,

your words lack the force.
You do not shout.
You simply say.
and that, it seems

is never enough.

About this poem

The picture this morning is one I took in Venice. The image of a lion in the garden has rattled in my head for years. The power, hiding in the softness of the garden.

Tom