Wednesday, March 30, 2011

moment (just a bad poem)

feel a wash of sorrow
as I read an email
(about practical things)
that suggests, again,
that my belief in "re-creation"
is a fool's belief,

my inner cynic brays
that civility cloaks contempt.
words are like wind, she says,
they stir dead leaves
to a dead dance.
when the wind is gone,
the leaves lie still

(this new "scheme"
convinces me for one awful moment
that I have no value.)

I stop reading,
close my eyes,
inhale, say to myself,

“Breathe through the grief, girlie.
Something beautiful waits
on the other side of grief.”

(thank you Sally Gentle Drew (and Amy Oscar).)

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