poetry & things

This field

I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it

soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does

cannot drift the way I’d like, floating freely as dandelion

or milkweed seeds wild in these fields.

I hear words, like arrows piercing in.

I feel shocks and waves that come

to cover me up, disappearing

facing the jangled places head on

letting go of over again

my fears, only transient clouds

and after the washing rains

the birds – singing, flying.

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