You miss most of the storms.
The sky flashes in the east
out of the dark broth behind
the purple budding trees
down the street. The wind
flaps at you with empty hand,
all of its knuckles thumping
the mud in the next country.
You stand on your porch with
only the breath of the storm,
a little too aware
of the madness of the world
to even think to give thanks.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Friday, March 31, 2006
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2006
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March
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- Safe from the Storm
- On Learning of the Evolution/Creationism Debate Ta...
- The Hawk
- Bad Tea
- Sexual Frustration
- Inspiration
- Apology to My Daughter
- Fragile
- Hunger
- Leaving the Woods Behind
- Coming Down (As requested by Aurora)
- This is not a poem (2)
- Evidence
- The Cello Player
- Turning Point
- Elegy for the Dragon
- A Mystery
- Aging
- Packing for the Hike
- Vigilance
- Seven Cups of Pu-erh, Gong Fu Style
- Defending
- Marketing Death
- A Father Reads the Parenting Websites
- Breakfast
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March
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