Why I Reach for You When I Know I Can’t Touch You

The surprise
of flowers
overnight

in the backyard.
A bag of soil
left outside

to dry in the sun.
A pot stacked
inside another pot

stacked inside
another.
Someone was

here, I thought.
Someone had to
have done this

while I was busy
doing whatever
I was doing

in order not to
pay attention
to the world

that, unlike me,
has no choice
but to keep on

going. Changing.
Being and being
changed. I go

about my day.
Another email.
Another dish

in the sink.
Another hour
stacked inside

another hour.
Was I to want
to be that

heft of sun-
lit earth, that wave
of sun-crowned stems

opening and closing
their petals, their faces
turning to darkness

only in death?
Maybe I do.
Maybe I don’t.