Wounds don’t 
bind others
to each 
scars do 
those who 
wail tragedies 
never heal 
go away 
lick wounds 
and comfort 
all those 
you meet
must too
one day 
forest den
or burrow 

Most people don’t 
a few do
but not many 
most go about 
many never stay
making this seem 
like the weather 
all too predictable 
such are seasons 

It approaches slowly 
like a shy
guy in bar
or lost puppy 
looking for approval 
more than attention 
asking many questions 
testing the waters 
seeing how deep 
then once comfortable 
begins to shine 
and I sit
basking in warmth 
of someone new 

It’s hard
to find 
shade beneath 
a tree
in winter 
for limbs
cover only 
a bit 
and to
miss leaves
means missing 
the summer 
so sun
I accept 
even if
less warm 

I’d much 
rather be 
the me
that I
am than
the me
that I 
was for 
that me
was the 
you me
and this 
me is
little more 
than I