I am the tiny, irate, scolding person
standing in the dome of my own skull.
She shakes her head again, arms crossed, again
disappointed: I’m clumsy, struggling, dull.
Then there’s the shattered wine glass,
an afternoon misspent, a dinner gobbled,
rank laundry, unpaid bills, uncut grass,
and, I suspect, one lovely friendship bobbled.
And yet, I’m here. Alive.
These yellow swiveling
leaves, this carnival of wind, make me recall
I’d love my neighbor if I loved myself
better.
The sky’s a million geese unraveling
in blue forgiveness. Love the tattered fall.
Forgive yourself.

This appears in the September/October 2018 issue of Sojourners
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