Good

I haven't been writing very good poems lately,
but that's ok. It's about process, forgiveness,
growth--being the flower instead of the weed,
being the voice that stretches, tickled
by the sun. I try not to prick clumsy
fingers, and I forget that no one blames
the rose. I guess this is a fine example
of my predicament. I don't know what is good,
if I'm good--a good person, a good
friend, a good artist. I wonder how much
it matters. We ignore the dandelions
until they're out of control.