“If” is not a blade of grass

April 18, 1981

I guess there’s something wrong in me

Some distorted bit, an ugly flaw

That bites both you, and painfully me

In different ways, a bit you’ve caught

And I have not. That’s my fault,

I’m afraid. The blinding of a lover

Who has missed the glaring signs to halt,
I see them now, too late, and you’ve another

Way of living set in your mind

I can’t blame you. I can only sit

And wonder if I’d been in time

Would fate have changed that little bit?

But bits and ifs are not enough

To turn you back to feeling love

If I was only a wide pine tree

With needles jutting from my finger tips

I could stab myself and remove from me

This terrible ugly frightening bit

I could grow new bark to hear the wound

That flakes now from my chest

Where once a heart like a flower bloomed

Out of sorrow and loneliness

But I have neither limb nor bough

That can stiffly stand your leaving

I have no roots that can swiftly grow

To seal this gap that’s bleeding

I’m just a simple man, it seems

Who burnt his wood to light his dreams.

If I was but a crow that sounds

Harsh and bitter and brooding life

There would be no heartless frame around

To ponder you and crave you like

A blind man must crave his sight.

I would have never had you

Near me, touching here and there, a knife

Cutting with pleasure, cutting me through.

But I am not a crow that caws

Or a bird that can fly away

I’m hooked upon your feline claws

With words not wings to sway.

But you who once had a softer side

Have hardened into another’s bride.

If I was but the yellow sky

Glowing with the predawn light,

Growing into an ocean wide

Of love and warmth and smiles

Maybe that would change that mind

Which thinks long thought with short replies

Maybe I could scorch and blind

And melt the frosting from your eyes.

But I am but a flicking flame

A short match’s light that forever longs

For you to help me ease the pain

That comes with being forever wrong.

But the flame that flickers learns to die

Without much warmth, without much pride.

And I am, too, the sprouting grass

Not a lawn, mind you, but a ragged

Bit of green that grows and wiggles past

The granite blocks and crags, it

Doesn’t matter. I’ll still grow

Though yellow without your light

And parts of me will always show

Your passing, your blinding bright.

I am not crushed; I am not damaged

But bent again in my old ways

Hurt and lonely, yet able to manage

The future filled with dull dark days

For you, my love, are the only ray

Left to raise this humbled blade.