Taking Back the Room

The last rooms I painted before this one 

were her's at her house, 

one lime green and one strong blue. 

We sweated through one summer day, 

hour upon hour, me cutting the edges 

while holding my breath. 

Then, she moved in here, with me, 

and had this room, the ironing room, 

to pile and keep her stuff. 

And, half the coat closet, 

the whole upstairs walk-in, two chests of drawers, 

and the side of the bed by the window. 

I thought it was enough, 

this opening of doors and places, 

and now, knowing what I know and can imagine 

about a wider, you before me, 

thou before I kind of love, 

I thought wrong, I held too tightly to things and spaces.

And not her. 

Then, she left, one day her mind made up, 

without talking with me, 

without listening to my prayers and pleas. 

For months these walls in this room have sat empty,

like my heart, a hole as wide as North Dakota, waiting, 

waiting, for her -or maybe me -to show back up again.

Yesterday, I took back the room, 

painting it the shade of green 

she picked for her house, but with brown, 

stirred with the brown loamy muck of what happened.

So now, my more golden green is a forest color: 

the shade one finds after wandering, 

cold and hopeful, through the thickest woods, 

stopping along the ancient way to see shoots of light 

peaking down and glimpses of another stronger blue. 

A green tinged with gathering grief, growth 

and resurrection acceptance.