Sometimes a story, a poem just hits you, smack dab across the head. It reaches into your temporal lobe and says, “Hey, listen to this. It’s as if you wrote it. But it’s using someone else’s language!”
Sometimes that story, that poem, talks to you and stirs within you a desire to talk back. This is one I want to talk back to. I want to tell the author, as if we were old friends and as if she understood the nuances of my life, how this poem fired off a reminder of how much I love writing and how I have a sudden need to start doing it again.
I work in my garden, alone, But for bees that communicate Satisfaction with my efforts. The neighbors whisper and watch, Looking for an error, a stagger, Never once caring for more than gossip. I live alone in a house of people, Never noticed, never seen, The dust is my intimate friend. I watch the sunset from my window, Its golden light illuminating my Loneliness, I wish and dream. I had a friend once, He as golden as the sun. He left like all the others, without a storm. He was beautiful, rich, Filled with ideas to make the world better. As my world collapsed in tears, he left. Gold sunshine will return at sunset, Not always there, but returning To give me a kiss of hope. The neighbors will talk, and I will freeze Like a rabbit before the fox. Let them talk, I am deaf to them now. (February…
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