BB Grey–musings

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days,” (Sinéad O’Connor, Nothing Compares 2U)
or 2191 days if you’re the kind who needs the math,

since you walked in like you owned the place
and bent me into a kind of happy I didn’t trust but wanted anyway.
It only needed water, we thought.
Turns out it needed a whole lot more.

Two plants came up in the same box.
At first you couldn’t tell them apart.
Hell, we even called them the same thing,
a “we” that was going to last.
Then one started growing a little different,
and you slapped the word “weed” on it
like that was the end of the conversation.

You want to cut it out now,
let it rot and feed the one you think is better.
But I keep thinking,
what if we’re swinging the blade at the wrong stalk?
Roots don’t lie, but people sure do.

I gave shade,
kept the dirt wet even when the heat felt like punishment.
I let the crows peck me bald
just so you could sit in the cool of my shadow.
But the water, the food,
it all started going one way.
Roots stayed on the surface,
grabbing quick meals instead of digging deep.
When the wind comes,
or some kid stomps through the patch,
that’s the end of it.
Good plant, bad plant,
they’ll both be mulch by morning.

We’ve all got our boxes.
Some we tend,
some we rip out and start over,
some we leave for the weeds.
And me, being a builder,
I should’ve known better,
the frame matters as much as the seeds.
No more pressure-treated promises,
no concrete coffins,
no redwood boasting it’ll last forever.

Just rock.
Stone that won’t lie.
Let the dirt breathe,
and whatever grows there,
earn the right to stay.