Simple Therapy

Simple Therapy

Of course I want to tell them.

Much of the time I had better things to do.

Coral does not have a therapist,

it just bleaches itself blonde.

A massive moon has been split in half

across the horizon [harvest] soft pink coral hue—

only it is still winter with 3ft of snow,

banks so high at the end of the drive

I cannot see on coming traffic—typifies

what a great poem could be under siege.

February gives way to March,

she invites me in, through her dark roots

whispers warmth into my ear,

teases the cold buds on the branches.

Leaves by morning in a new blanket of snow.

I am ready for unconditional warmth,

but first I must prune the apple trees.