Love Poetry (Weather)

Poetry and I:

Like Jane to Calamity.

Like the Hindenburg to Fire.

Like Rim to Tire.

 

We transpire.

 

(And proceed.)

 

We tire.

 

We exist,

we live,

and we are:

 

Like a fast car, like a boxer’s spar.

 

Immensely interesting.

 

Poetry.

Poe, try (ed).

Poe did and Poe died

-drunk along the riverside under dark skies.

 

But he got by (with it).

 

(That’s how we think of the past, in black and white.  Romantic delight.)

 

Yet we read on.

 

We choose battles.

We choose retreats.

Sometimes while talking in our sleep.

 

We like it.

We write it.

Sometimes its divided.

 

The words still exist (with us).

In the mix, tossed up to become lost stuff…  Then found.

That’s when poetry comes back around.

 

The wind blows the leaves every-which-way, the path forward and backward become obstructed and cleared in an instant.  The air around has a chill that has been in other lands for many months, touching other faces, other families, with other ideas.  Relation is in the season-we feel this way for a reason.  Universal community.  

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