Once, I planted a stanchion around my heart—
as I hoped, smiling and thankful,
to receive your embrace.
Once, I tried to capture the west,
to serve it up on a platter of gratefulness, ready
to join you in the shade of intellect,
to scoop up the crumbs of your regard and
clasp them to my breast.
Once, it was possible to weave trust,
to fathom the tarnished luster of
your good intentions.
But our simple living deceived me,
the harmony of city life,
listening to the tender clamor, common
among those without.
Now, the chorus of my pain
I will frame this sound,
hang it over my bed and
trusting no path but my own.
Erin Reeves considers herself a photographer who also writes, but the truth is she was a poet before she became a photographer. Erin had a few poems published so long ago it feels like a different lifetime. She lives in Deep Ellum with her husband, two rescued greyhounds, and two very naughty cats.