I assure you things will be alright—especially in my verse.
You say, “God, give me a drink; things are going to get worse.”
I memorialize in my poems the trees and the flowers.
You think, “Come on. Really? I sweat over my garden for hours.”
I dedicate my poem to the paths which disappear behind graves.
You laugh, “The cemetery? It’s my hidden kisses he craves.”
I dash off poems to your smile, your eyes, your bright skin.
You worry about boredom and headaches. You think you don’t fit in.
Then you leave me. My dear poems become annoying, at last—
You tell me: “You are too happy. Your poetry is too vast.”
But when you find, years later, by accident, the first poem
I gave you, shyly, from underneath my coat—
There it is, still in its bright red envelope—
You don’t throw it away. But softly you say to yourself, “Really?”