The rain gives birth
to tiny blossoms
of thought,
growing in my brain
until
the petals float away.
I write letters to you
in my head,
beginning
ending
the same way
every time.
The rush of slick
freeway, the trickle
of man-made drain,
and I know the only way
to end
this feeling is to cut
myself off.
Forget, move on,
repress.
We could pretend,
but never commit
to the loss.
(72 words, sorry this is late)
1 comment:
This is absolutely stunning. I could open a volume of contemporary poetry at B&N and see this there on the page. Your sense of rhythm through line break is masterful, and the image of rain and flowers is breathtaking.
I feel as though you let me peer into soul, and your poem has done its job. Also, I don't know that this poem is late. So long as each of us posts six pieces a week, Monday through Saturday, I think we're good. Sunday is for overviews and new assignments.
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