Friday, November 4, 2011


(Pre-Script: This poem goes best as the song, "Wherever you will go," #42 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

The flash flood hit me sideways,
a reminder to clean out the storm drain,
clear the leaves from the thing that grew last season,
then let go of what had dried up and died.
(When you were small, you were golden,
and I marveled at your colors-
white blond on olive tan-
all the things that I am not, birthed through me,
me at my most creative.)
There was no time to steel myself
against the thing that was knocking me off of my feet.


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