my own poem

I wanted to write a happy poem,
full of joy and laughter and painless metaphors,
and so I went out into the garden
but did not pick a flower or one of its petals,
for that would hurt it.
Instead, I just looked at it
and pretended it was a beacon looking
straight at the stars,
which aren't actually dead:
if my eyes don't lie,
there's still shine in them,
undimmed by the matter of time.

Then, I simply savoured the dew
as the dew is. And realized my heart is in things and beings,
and so I took a deep breath,
and found a poem buried in the earth.

And I called it my own.