Suppose

My previous body of poetry consists of the following, penned when I was eight:

Once there was a pickle
Who rode on a bicycle
With tired feet he headed
To the pickle jar which he dreaded

No Mary Oliver in the making, needless to say.

And so it is with trepidation that I offer the poem below, which did not start as a poem, which was not intended as such. But when I wrote the prose sentences, which were meant to set out and examine the contrasts and contradictions I feel (and I am betting most of us do), it felt as if the phrases and clauses needed separation, so I began placing them on different lines. And this happened. Which is a poem? Oh gee, be kind, my friends.

Suppose you crave both adventure and domesticity,
the call of the dirt path
and the gravitational pull of the garden,
the magic of awakening in a tent
and the delight of luxuriating between soft linen?

Suppose you spark to spontaneity
but love making lists?
Suppose you love to go-go-go
but are drawn to stop and wonder?

Suppose you want to lose yourself
but also find yourself,
go out into the world without a backstory
but excavate your own past?

Suppose you want to be visible and invisible?

Suppose you want to be loved but left alone?