Adam Byrn Tritt

This garden is the story
Told and retold.
The good work,
After the thaw.
Of digging into it,
Thick and deep,
With both hands.
Dark and heavy
Dirt under the nails,
The stains of soil that speak
of productive labour.
Our blisters,
Backs,
Aching, though
We have dug here before
And will dig here again.
Again, the flowers will grow,
Blooms open to beauty,
Ebullience, awe,
Warm our hearts,
Blooms grow to fruit,
Leaf to vegetable,
Fill our stomachs,
Sate our hungers,
Our hopes of harvest not for
Nothing
Until cold comes,
Until day is short,
Night is long,
Longer,
The heady high,
The heart of joy of autumn ends in
Leafless trees.
Grey seems forever.
Hope is lost.
In this cold,
Nothing grows
Nothing blooms.
This is the story told and told again.
This garden. These trees.
This labour.
This.

8/20/15
Six months ago I wrote this. It is not my best work. It may become better over time. Nothing I write is set in stone until I am set into the ground. And, even then, stone wears, becomes sand, washes to the sea.

I needed help finding a title. After six months, I thought, maybe, “After Four Years.” It had been nearly that since she fell. Since the days became numbered. Until I could count them on one hand. Until they were gone. But this will be true no matter how many years pass, and I know, even when I die, even that will be different. And so, that one day, April 1st, 2011, will always be that day. The day. The one day.

And, so, below, a mediocre poem that, against my normal practice, I wish to leave here anyway.  “One Day.”

2/1/2015
Really. I need your help. I can’t title this poem. It caught me in the car, I had to pull over. I had to write.

Maybe it will be all I write about for the rest of my life. Maybe writing about it will let me write about other things. I don’t know. I think about it more than I should. More than is good for me.

Can you title this? Can you leave a title in the comments?
If you nail it, I’ll send you a book.

One day
Cancer came into my home.
It went though my filing cabinets,
It took my
Who, what, where, why.
It took my how and stole them,
Changed them,
Replaced them with
Ones I didn’t recognize.
It came into my life,
Removed everything familiar,
Replaced them with things
I didn’t know how to operate,
Changed routes.
This street is not the same street,
This house is not the same house.
It looks the same to everyone else.
They are wrong.

Personality changes over time,
Small changes.
Slow changes.
Until cancer decides
You are someone else,
Your life becomes another life.

And, always, you know
That day can come again.