Eighteen Months

I once believed in fairy tales,  
that you could have it all ~  
if only you wished hard enough,  
believed for long enough;  
confusing needs with wants,  
I turned them all into knights  
on white horses; my saviors,  
and I called to them seductively  
from a tower purposely built  
to be much too tall  
to climb    
 
it would seem, so often  
what I got for all my hoping  
was a yard full of death  
and soil filled with dry bones;  
nothing beautiful  
or lasting could grow here,
in this haunted cemetery ~  
my improper shrine devoted  
to self-fulfilling prophecy;  
after all, fruitful gardening  
is difficult when  
you’re digging with full hands  
in starving ground  
 
eighteen months have passed  
since I sought the help of a shaman,  
and we’ve spent 547 days  
making a mess of my lawn;  
she showed me the ways to quiet  
the rattling chains and shrieking  
voices of my inconsolable ghosts,  
carefully lifting the dead  
from their haphazard resting places  
and honoring the lives they gave  
with deeper, solid ground  
and a layer of fresh grace
patted softly into place,  
allowing each time to settle  
before adding another  
 
I’ve practiced being  
a good groundskeeper,  
planting healthy seeds  
of peace and happiness,  
now that I know happy endings  
are less rare than those  
who understand that you  
can only have whatever  
you’re willing to work for ~  
whatever you’re determined  
to care for, to love in action;
that you can only keep  
what you’ve finally learned  
to keep alive