All day long I say nothing but I am sorry.

The words tumble in breaths and yawns,

wait for acceptance at the breakfast table,

over black coffee and blue bowls of oatmeal.

In the garden, I whisper it to sleeping

 

purple foxglove, beg forgiveness

over bending sunflower heads.

I am sorrowful after lunch, again

while playing a Chopin Prelude, still,

at night while rereading Middlemarch.

 

I am sorry, I have said to the air around your empty

chair at breakfast, your muddied gardening shoes,

your memory crossing the library. I have professed

misgivings to food, to flowers, to rising piano chords,

to George Eliot (who never made apologies).

 

This is the way of remorse. Whispered

to an invisible audience, carried out in solitude.

 

 


Robin Farr

Robbin Farr is a writer, poet, and photographer of blighted buildings, who lives in Doylestown, PA where she is actively involved in a community of poets. She holds an MFA from the University of Queens in Charlotte and currently teaches writing at Rider University. She also served as a consultant/mentor for eight years to a student run publication, The Golden Pen. Her work has appeared in Wild River Review and Philadelphia Stories and is upcoming inSnapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing.