rooted

can i love another
like i love you?
is there anything 
i wouldn't do for you?
you ask me to love this world
the way you do, and
here i am, with arms wide open
yelling out to a stormy October sky
what i vow against to November's. 

and here are trees
and there are seas
and such is the way
for my present complaints,
to be rooted or free
two years feels like eternity,
but so does ten percent of anything. 

i've never written good poetry,
but does that still matter? does it
still matter what i write so long as 
i write?