I'm Sorry.

That the dogs are dying. 
That there are miles, two thousand of them or more, between here and there. 
That I didn't get the joke, or like it. 
That I let the garden die. 
That I said too much. 
That I said too little. 
That I didn't try and that I tried too hard. 
That my hair was never long for you. 
That I am so cold all the time. 
That I was mean. 
That I was kind. 
That I was patient and impatient, both. 
That I wrote instead of calling. 
That I called instead of writing. 
That there are so many ways of talking. Just talk. Just listen. 
That I don't like clams. 
That I didn't go to shear the sheep that day. 
That I pretended when I should have been real. 
That I was real when I should have pretended. 
That I was late. 
That I canceled. 
That I said no. 
That I said yes. 
That I disappear. 
That I act rash. 
That I take my time. 
That I know absolutely. 
That I don't know.   
That I didn't ask. 
That I even ask at all. 
That I mouthed the three words instead of giving them sound, every night. 
That I cared too little and too much. 
That I didn't read the books. 
That I am sometimes weak to the bone. 
That I am sometimes so tough I push you over.
That I can't always help you up. 
That I drank that much beer. 
That I can't drink that much beer. 
That I don't want to wake up yet (let me sleep). 
That I didn't wake up and see, and live. 
That I woke up. 
That I listened. 
That I didn't listen. 
That I didn't say I'm sorry. 
That I said it. 
That there is so much and so little and that we've got it all to carry. Your yoke, mine; I'd take them up both, were I able. 

Never for its beginning, nor its good and harsh and honest life. Never for that. 



Thanks for reading. 

Beth