It is natural and much too easy for me to let anxieties, painted with an evil brush, softly color my soul, until the warming sun begins to darken and cool, one watery stroke after another. In this half-lit world, I stumble and curse, reaching out with increasing blindness for answers.

But you, a deeper part, carry my heavier weight, standing straight, strong, without complaint while I leave you to fend for yourself, unconscious of your maintenance. 

I will not own my purposeful ignorance. Instead of gradual attention and affection, I avoid your needs. The color of my shame begins to mix with new pigment, a rich deepening midnight.

Your slow and determined shrugs testify that you still have strength. But when I begin to hear your staggered breathing and see the strain bunched in your shoulders, panic rises. Perhaps you must first fall before I rush to your side and provide aid, enough, at least, to bring you back upright. 

I am an abusive friend, keeping you alive, but almost ignored, as I scurry this way and that looking for an escape route that finds new detours around your warnings. If I learn the lessons you are patiently waiting for me to understand, will you love me enough to forgive my unwavering neglect? 

this river valley

endures a parched springtime,

will summer bring fire?