It is natural and much too easy for me to let anxieties, painted with an evil brush, color my soul until the once bright, warming influence of the sun seems to darken and cool, layer after layer. In this half-lit world, I stumble and curse, reaching out with increasing blindness for answers.

But a deeper part carries the heavier weight. It stands straight, strong without complaint until I leave it, unconscious of its maintenance, for far too long. At first, I trim a few minutes just there, and there. Given a week or three, I will begin to forget to feed the dog and water the plants, let alone check to see how you are holding up. The color of my shame begins to mix with new pigment, rich deepening midnight.

Your slow and determined shrug testifies that you still have strength. But now, I begin to hear your staggered breathing, I begin to see the strain in your bunched shoulders. Now, I recognize my neglect, but still I do not act. Instead, I wait until there is blood mixed with your perspired strain. Perhaps it takes you falling to one knee and often the other before I rush to your side and provide aid, just enough to bring you back upright. 

I am an abusive friend, keeping you alive, but mostly ignored, mostly unseen as I scurry this way and that looking for an escape route of my choosing. 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?