All my steps will be encased in concrete.
The tender steps on earthen moss,
Carrying nothing but my heart,
Carrying only what I need to survive:
These too will perish.
My heart will be encased in concrete.
Hardened by the frosts that consumed it,
And all the times it was measured, assessed and condemned--
Reduced to questions, like:
How many successful babies did she produce?
How many units of revenue did her time generate for someone rich?
How many minutes of happiness compared to how many minutes of pain?
How many lovers hated her, in the end?
How many opportunities did she seize, compared to how many were squandered?
How many times did she let her brilliance die, to live in another's room and falter at being open-hearted?
How many poems were written about heavy, concrete hearts
Or political truisms,
And were never shared?
How much did silence make her life small?
How many broken dreams were scattered to the wind, marring freshly laid concrete?
Even the woods weren't safe,
Like when we were caught in a landslide and I was hoping and scared about dying,
Even then, as we
Measured steps, degrees on a map, turns not taken, feelings unshared,
Degrees not finished,
Love found and lost or never pursued; or discovered, long ago, to have withered.
In the end all is cocooned or
Mummified in an anonymous bank of time,
That is everywhen and nothing all at once.
This earthen heart, tread upon with so many breaths,
Cannot contain the question.