Out Like a Lamb

Rainfall

Rippling reflections on this pane of kitchen window glass
Are distorting my view of what was once my favorite tree.
I remember when mom's boyfriend brought the chainsaw
Never asked my input although he knew it was my perch
For years I stood upon the spot to try and redirect distress
And always rain would soak the wood until the stump itself
Let go of structure, formless in its falling 'way to crumbling
Like a ghost who aches to haunt but cannot find the sound.



note ▼

April 16—Rain

an acrostic poem