Time rows backwards,
like a boat,
sighting on what’s behind
to find the way ahead.
You live life lost, not seeing where you’re headed
till you’ve been there–
kinda like love.
Love rows backwards,
steady dip and pull
mating what’s parted
It’ll heal your heart or rend it again and again
till your patches sprout patches–
kinda like pokeweed.
Pokeweed rows backwards,
like a poor man’s bet,
a scratch-n-win patch through emptiness
when a real meal can’t be found.
It’ll fill you or empty you
till you’re steady on your feet or shivering on your knees–
kinda like faith.
Sometimes when I write I know exactly what I’m saying. Other times it’s like the words are a message from a deeper part of me and I study them trying to grasp the meaning. You’ll probably get this before I do. I may not know what I’m saying but this is my first contribution to The Sunday Whirl. And now that I figured out where dVerse Poets OLN got off to, a contribution there as well. Drop by to see what others wrote or to join the fun yourself.
*Pokeweed is sometimes eaten in the Southern US. It is toxic if not cooked properly and I wouldn’t recommend it. Even if leaves are picked young and cooked properly it is still possible to become ill from eating poke salad. It was seen as a meal of last resort, a way to stave off starvation until something better could be found. A poor man’s bet that could just as likely empty your belly as fill it.