Spilled Ink from the Vault

He’s squeezed enough tears from me 
over the years, so these are not his. 
The day will come (I must believe it) 
when simple kindnesses will not 
notch an arrow then send it humming 
through the air until it hits the target
he left hanging on my heart. Again I bleed,
but these tears water the roots of the sapling 
he neglected. These tears are yours. I refuse
to allow him to stake any further claim, but you,
you may settle where you wish in the landscape
of my heart; you may take what you want,
what you need. Where he trampled
the undergrowth, left a trail of destruction,
mined and felled with no thoughts
for sustainability or preservation of habitats,
you tread softly with gentle reverence, 
exploring the delicate ecosystem with both awe
and scientific curiosity, and the birds, 
once silenced, again serenade the sunrise. 
Time and tenderness together work to restore
the natural order, and I pray that you will love
the blossoms and wildflowers that were hitherto
unable to thrive. These tears taste of gratitude 
not bitter resentment, and whilst I always knew
these gardens were worth waiting for, I see
now that they are more beautiful than my wildest imaginations.