It’s the first day of driving with the windows down,
and your heart no longer beats in waltzes.
You know now that your mother gave you more
than soft eyes and chronic migraines.
And you know that some trees never let go
of old leaves, and because of this
they do not bloom like they want to.
Some things are just too hard to let go of.
But some bloom, most bloom.
And you think that maybe you’ll be different
once the rain washes the dead things
from the branches into the gutters.
You think maybe you are not the dead thing
and you are not the gutter harboring it;
maybe you are the seeds in the soil
which have such great faith in something brighter,
that they grow before ever seeing the sunlight.
Kelly Collins is a young poet from Oregon who struggles with bipolar disorder. She has been published with Seafoam, The Mulberry Fork Review, and The Rising Phoenix Review. She runs the literary magazine The Dinner Table Review. Find it at thedinnertablereview.tumblr.
