Is this woodpile just a load of junk,
The parts which have fallen off,
Never to be affixed again.
Or are they a shelter,
Made from the errors and mistakes,
Providing a refuge; where I can store the sorrow.
Until it becomes an evitable joy.
I know my answer should have been earlier,
I needed to attend all the meetings,
To have listened to others when the discussions were happening,
But I didn’t.
Now, the report is due,
The conclusions are in,
A consensus is made.
But I will still place myself at the head of the table,
Even though I did not prepare the food,
Invite the guests,
Or even greet them at the door.
Seems like I am keeping us apart.
Not really sure why;
Perhaps because you have forgiven me,
But I won’t accept it in my heart.
No wonder I feel the distance.