aeryn

I wish I could write poetry. I wish could capture this spring in a few lines strewn across the page, mince my words, boil them down to their essence, and set them to the rhythm that Im thrilling to. I wish I was able to draw a picture of the ominous black clouds dumping hail as I run sodden to the sunlight; dancing with the exultation of bird song that tumbles through all this change. I wish I could hold the one Im hurting in the spaces between my lines, until he was soothed and then let him go into a gentle summer. If I could write poetry, I would gracefully tell of what I found out about myself, about love, about change, and it would be clear and understood, and maybe forgiven. But I cant write poetry. I can only clumsily try to use my prose.