My dear friend
I woke up this morning and the sky was stifling tears
I hoped it would cry for you
I knew you had planted a whole field yesterday
tucked your hopes and good humor into tired ground
so overworked that it blew away with a breath of the noon wind
If only the day would give you a chance to
grow something to show for your sweat
I was never born a farmer
but my callused fingertips recognize the loamy feeling
of the world keeping a secret under its skin
and the shy desire to discover it
I know how to mean well
and fuck it up anyway
If only the sky would confess
and the seeds grow
The clock on the nightstand begged me to close my eyes
and lose myself in sleep
but is the day still night if you call it that?
Is a stranger still friend if you call it that?
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