Here, with my hands in the dirt.
I never imagined myself
as much of a gardener.
I never imagined I'd be much of a cook either,
let alone a poet.
knuckles so broken,
I can barely hold a pencil.
Every time I take a breath,
I feel the ribs that have not yet healed.
Though they should've,
So I guess I've changed.
So much so
there are times when I don't recognize myself
in the mirror.
who is this person standing before me?
Where did he come from?
When did he get here?
But I have no answers.
I guess this is the nature of things.
Though part of me longs to reach out.
To tell the `me that was,
there is a better way.
But there is no `me that was anymore,
only the `me