Many years ago I looked out my window
(there was nothing there)
I looked out my window
And I thought, "this is a day
I will remember," and I do,
Though it was nothing remarkable.
I looked out and thought
"This is a day for poetry,"
And I found myself a blank page
And, fingers sticky with
Half-eaten unripe apple, I wrote
Lines Written in Very Early Spring
I never got beyond that.
That night, or maybe it wasn't,
Maybe it was one of many nights
That mounted nightmares and rode
Past my window, the window
Out of which I could see nothing,
But maybe it was that night
That I dreamed of scars.
I dreamed of the lines I'd carved
Into my own legs at fourteen
And I dreamed of my exes, and
My exes' exes, a long parade
And every line reminded me
That scars fade in seven years.
I don't know if that was true
It was just what the dreams
Told me to hope for.
It has been seven years,
Seven very early springs, and late springs,
And everything that comes after
The fading of the first bloom
Of muddy, messy excitement.
I live behind different windows now.
The world looks different beyond them;
My vision has improved, as has the view.
The sun rises, and it sets,
And I do not grudge its going;
The apples are unripe, and ripe, and eaten,
And I do not grudge them growing.