An orchid shivering on the first day of spring

It's not that I think you're barren inside
skeletal like trees in the wintertime
it's doubts and fears making their patrols
oh how I can't put it back inside my mouth
floating free for the butcher's block, your
slight and pacifistic fist clutching ways to harm me
with that indiscernible look to your eyes
hinges on somedays and maybes
where now is my house, my safe spot
my porch-rocker partner and friend
I have this hidden weight in my chest -
if it is briefly grief of what's come to pass
or a piece forever missing in the middle
I don't know - I muddle through
with scribbles in a chewed-up book