All my poems are embarrassing I don't let my husband read them Too many birds and trees water metaphors and seasons turning He doesn't ask, which I interpret as respect on a good day But when the bad day comes I worry does he expect too many birds and trees? Foreseeing winter eddies and autumnal tides does he refrain to spare me his discomfort? Too much reflection, recollection, too much muchness just like me Too many layers of clothing He who knows my foibles and witnesses my follies would see right through my lines and I would be embarrassed He's already seen me naked after all