a poem, a reflection on our shortcomings
Dissecting detail,
the fine print of love
the nitty-gritty, itty bitty missteps
that everyone makes
trying to understand
trying to make sense of
trying to put intent
to the unintentional
like Rondstadt’s “Love is a Rose”
this scab, when picked
oozes fresh and ugly
like sniffing sour milk
there’s nothing to be gained
but much to be lost
when we focus laser-like
on the other’s shortcomings
instead of — what?
What can we do
when the differences
eat at us from the inside?
I remember a friend once said
when someone asked how he felt
after he related a story about his wife
“I just file it away as that is part of her”
and instead of picking at the scab
he marveled at how it healed
at the regenerative love
made possible by tolerance