These fingers are still counting Today

Today’s poem is not about forgiving or forgetting
although I think at some strike of lightening
it has invested in at least one.
Today’s poem is a locked door wedged against
a breast bone tormented by too many apologies.
Today’s poem is a start to a beginning that has only ever fed on end.
Today’s poem is blistered finger prints,
whimsical ideals in the dead drifts of frost
where honey and promise meet
over and over and over again.
Today’s poem is full of isn’t
and packed past veins and sinew with is.
I want to tell you that it’s okay to harvest fossils
sometimes.
Just don’t ingest them.
They aren’t a part of you any longer.
Stop waiting for summer solstices to tell you it’s alright to cry.
Stop letting others demand sadness of you.
This is a poem for a day in spring fraught
with ghosts hanging on the ceilings
joking in the floor boards
asking you to divulge all the things twisting you up.
Today’s poem is an ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write you’
but I’m not sorry for the anger that colored the time between us.