The Brooklyn Rail

How many fruits have we plucked
  From this unloved garden?
How many lines have we made
  In the heart of this wood?
How many “I love you” have we said
  Across this broken table?
How much wine have we drunk
  To numb it all?
How many crises have we mended
  After exhausting all our tears?
How many flowers have we cut
  To soften our emotions?
It’s often our hearts, isn’t it?
  That we recalibrate.