The Bee Tree in Winter

For Broken Hearts

I died a hundred deaths today,

forced a thousand leaden steps.

Shed a million stinging tears,

rent innumerable shuddered breaths.


On that bitter January day

clasping cold-numbed hands,

we solemnly surrendered to the winter wind

our only remaining hope.

"If you love something, set it free," right?

Such an inane platitude.


Conventional wisdom cannot apply

to this unconventional thing we created;

this pure organic incarnation, deliberately devoid

of fences, labels, boxes, definitions.


Fuck "set it free."

If you love something, 

protect it like the last ounce of water

in the goddamn desert. 

Hold it tight beneath the roughest skies. 

Honor it as your own flesh:

that's love.


Yet there, by the frozen lake, we set our hope free.

We slid it, naked, out onto the thin ice

Abandoned it to the savage wind

because it had become a snapping, snarling thing,

because it had drawn blood 

innumerable times.

We left it there, squalling

as we resolutely walked away.


And if, my love, somehow, someday

our hope finds its way home 

Will we embrace it still,

in all its wild-eyed, feral unpredictability?

Will we welcome it, with all the pain it's sure to bring?


We both know we will.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Originally written 1/25/14

View piscespieces's Full Portfolio