the old priest said
the same five things
will happen still:

crusty rings around your bread;
a curtsey and a robin’s egg
the wind will blow westward, hard;
your words forgotten for the ages.

Somewhere in our basement is a banker’s box with notebooks of writing from my teenage years. I didn’t know anything about writing poems but I wrote them anyway (I’m pretty sure part of the blame for this goes to one too many viewings of _Dead Poets Society_). But I would often sit down in my room, at my desk with a pen and a notebook that “felt right” (there’s something tactile about certain rituals like that that seem to fuel my creativity.) quiet my teenage brain as best I could and listen for interesting phrases, write them down, sometimes edit, but more often not, to create/add meaning. This is a quasi-attempt to re-engage that teenage creative impulse and add a little more adult editing. The blogged stanzas are a bit different than what first came out when I free-wrote, and while I wouldn’t call them meaningless, what was important was the sound of each phrase, not what they meant. The last line also came from a very specific memory in a writing class..but that’s another story for another day.


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