There came a point
when she was no longer an addled dandelion.
She became the sun
(albeit a cloudy, hid and sought sun).
Am I too early, she was always saying.
I can come back. I should come back,
she would say, sitting down in some corner.
When she wrote inaccuracies shinnied up
the back legs of her chair. She could be seen
brushing them out of her eyes like hairs,
like static electric feathers of hair. Shoo!
She liked to write on creamy paper with almost-
invisible lines. Yellow is the closest to invisible,
but who takes her needs into consideration?
On the day when she became so angry
the clouds burned, a learned biographer
motoring in the neighborhood mistook her
for a volcano. The poem she wrote that day
was as short as a fire hydrant, and no one
read it–only her. But it taught her again
and again that a moment’s anger can be
more restful than a cool, soaking rain.

2 thoughts on “Poet

  1. Pointed. Some times a good funk can push us in new directions.
    I’ve been mistaken for a volcano (in my younger years).
    Now when I spew… I try and think before I open my mouth.
    The paper, though is always a good listener.


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