Futile Foliage

A poem. A collaboration. A thing of beauty.

A poem by Andy Edge & H. R. Sinclair, with images woven through from wildflower

Audio by H. R. Sinclair

I

It’s a glimpse, from the corner of my eye,
the way the light moves through you,
the way I hear your laugh drift through me,
the way you fill the space and

…sometimes I think you’re still here…

I feel your sea still bordering mine
But I miss our mixing.
The surface may seem calmer
But I miss your crashing waves.
I can still taste the salt
My tongue stained with
A burn I’ll never wash off.

But, O’, how I feel your current
right next to me,
you are the shape of light on water,
the glimmer of luminescence
the slight of hope

…here and not here…

the way a song continues
even after the music stops and

…in the breath we take before we begin humming it again…

the way the narrative continues
even after uttering the words

…The End…

the way the actors stand still
even after the curtains close

…soaking in the last feeling of life…

I close my eyes and feel your touch upon my skin,
the air warm where you have been and
I love the way the wind moves through the curtains
with your particular grace, and
I know this sounds impossible,
I know wind is only wind,
but it carried something of you,
something in the way
you’d pause in doorways,
never quite arriving or leaving…

…you were never one for stillness…

and I’ve kept your whispers
in a sealed jar by the window
and when I crack them open,
for just a moment,
just a moment,
a breeze of your existence
brushes against my being once more

and the garden knows you different than I do,
it grows wild in the places you once tended,
like a conversation continuing without words,
and the clematis climbs
exactly as you said it would, reaches
for the fence post and
my windowsill holds
a pot you left behind,
holding a now-dead flower
drooping down the left-hand side,
but the roots remain and
I fed it what I fed us though
it never was enough
and I think, this is how we remain,
in the insistence of blooming,
I turn, expecting…

…You. But expectation is an open door, the air quivers, empty, and still…

Because it’s only morning doing what morning does and
I’ve learned to love,
to love the arriving,
to love the leaving,
to love the way you
season every room,
settle in the chair by the window,
linger in the doorway at dusk…

It is a sweetness,
like honey on my tongue
or the first peach of summer,
like waking to rain
washing the earth and
your last text says look at the moon
and I do, and even without you here,
our conversation never ends

II

I am dark,
bleak,
dry,
wilted and stilted,
until the old, wooden door
creaks open,
reveals the brightest of
rays, blinding me,
bringing tears to my eyes
I blink,
again,
once more,
and there you stand,
clutching a handful of seeds
in your fist

You drag me from the
shed, under the blue sky,
a blue I’ve never seen before

We plant the seeds,
bury them just right,
and every day we
return,
stand side by side,
water the dirt,
as the drops soak in
and
I remember the day
your hands cupped a sparrow after it
hit a window,
how you waited,
patient,
so patient,
until it remembered how to fly and
when it left you watched the empty sky
longer than necessary
and there it is…
the tiniest hint of green
amongst all the dark soil

III

You are sunlight on the hydrangeas
turning them
a deeper shade of blue,
as if they wait
for your exact light
and
the willow grows toward you
aching
reaching
needing
wanting,
its branches stretch across the yard
and it knows something about thirst
I haven’t admitted to yet

We didn’t plant things then, we discovered them,
mushrooms pushing through after rain,
the neighbor’s cat chose my porch,
chose your lap,
chose us like we were already
what we hadn’t said yet and
the first time you laughed here,
I thought

…this is how roots begin…

We let them spread,
take up more space
moved more of ourselves aside
to make more room.
Each whittling branch from the stem
was just-living proof of our dying parts
and so compensations rose.
We emptied parts of ourselves
to use as futile sustenance,
sometimes in spite of the other
just to have this just-living plant
stay living.
That’s when I thought

…this is how roots take hold…

IV

I tend to everything now
in replacement of your tenderness
to distract the very mind
you once satiated.
To fill the hands
you once entertained
I tend to everything
to keep the colour
you once planted here

..but truly I tend to it all…

to root the love you gave me,
a living reminder of the life
you taught me to live

…there’s still fruits in those lessons…

That moon you see,
the view we once shared,
pushes and pulls
and teases a history long-gone
and the horizon shows you no more
but I feel your current as if it
were right there
I know the rhythm
I know the ripples
I long to rain in your cloud
again.

I’ve kept your whispers
in a sealed jar near the window
that when I crack open both
for just a moment
a breeze of your existence
brushes my being once more.

If you feel the wind one night,
will you whisper into it
again.

My windowsill still holds
that pot you left behind
carrying a now-dead flower
drooping down the left-hand side
but the roots remain
little to no nutrients of course
I fed it what I fed us
but they are
hollow as they are

I fed it what I fed us…
I tried to remember those lessons you gave me
I tried to remember those roots…

…I tried to feed it what I tried to feed us…

I promise.

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Harry and I began writing this last October, and it’s been a labor of love. I hope you enjoyed it, I hope you take time to appreciate the images with it. I hope I can work with Harry again, because he is truly one of a kind, an elegant writer and an elegant person. - Andy

Andy and I started this poems journey a wee bit ago, and while I have foolishly allowed life to delay its growth it has been a true pleasure to nurture it with Andy. His words create such a rhythm that it is a joy to follow each step. Over the time, our original intentions have slipped my mind but I think that perfectly encapsulates what we were trying to conjure. The essence of existence, and love's dance within it. So many stages of our life we start with such strong ideas - with a burning passion and a clear purpose - but time waits for no-one and life plays it's games and we futile humans try to control both. The result in moments can be heart wrenching. The result by the end is what we call Life. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it, and reading it! - Harry

Thank you to Wildflower for reading our work and creating the images for it. What a beautiful soul. Thank you. - Andy & Harry

Love to you all, from Edgelord and the H-Dog.

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https://substack.com/@harryrsinclair

https://substack.com/@zoraleigh