We've spent all this time trying to be a human.

I woke up today with the resolve to be
totally and completely human just for once--
by noon I found myself entangled the arms of
another mistress that was also a hydrangea 
bush and I regret to say that I had
already fallen into my tendency of
turning back into a plant or vine
and thinking too much
about whether or not
I had ever seen a living star
or if I had only seen memories
of a light long turned off
in the ceiling of God's studio apartment--
I have never needed to eat-- so I
worry about things like the sun
that keep my hair white and dab
freckles on my cheeks like a splatter 
art kit-- I cut off my roots
so I don't dig too deep in the soil--
get my knees caught on buried
pocket knives and chicken coop 
wire from the farm that still sows 
ghost soy beans underground.
I wonder if those farmers ever neglected to be human.
Isn't that what we're all trying to do?
Trying to remember to be human-- it's hard though
Some of us turn into butterscotch krimpets
or the warm space between a hot stack 
of pancakes at the diner with the swivel chairs--
I've been told that some of us have
a tendency to grow yellow in the pages
of a sun ripened books-- I have
been a raisin memoir and the peach pit
of a poem.
I have already given up on today.
I have bent my spine in handle 
of a coffee mug.
I believe in us you know?
I believe that despite it all
we are in a sense human-- even if
not all the time. And maybe some days
we can both be plants and by sunset
we can weave a grape vine
just to cut it down. There's something
human about grape vines 
and poison ivy--so maybe you were
the mistress in the hydrangea--
the petals always looked like
your smile anyway-- 
and who says I can't turn back on the
stars to use as my night lights--
God wouldn't mind.