The hurt in my heart barks like the dog
through the shut door of the neighboring
room longing to be let out
into the circle
where I sit separately scribbling
my pain onto a page.
A truck bouncing along a rural road with
flowers in the back.
You reach over with your pen and add
a person, you,
to the solo driver, me,
in the cab.
How quickly I forget.
The door is open.
I am in the circle.
Your fingers run down the ridge of my back,
sowing seeds of care in the soil of my body.
The flowers come up and bump along in the
back of our truck.
April 27, 2002