after Mary Oliver

I want to be good. To crawl on my knees
and erase every terrible thing I’ve done.

My despair is so deep it has triggered volcanoes—
can you help me? Let’s survey the carnage,
the newly formed terrain. The waterfalls burst forth,
the sun glancing off the sea.

If every inch of me is covered in scars,
That means you can’t see any one, yes?

Like the weed clings to the side of the mountain,
I have found my place, right here.
We’ll carve it out and polish it smooth.

Tell me I’m good.

The hills are half covered in snow,
just enough to forget the stories
they told last week.

Winter is so long now
I’m not sure I’ll ever see roses grow again,
gorse won’t be burnt back and even if I run
to the top above the fog
the clear air will be so thin.

I might catch a glimpse of
the setting sun
as it dips
below the horizon.