of tangled legs and wings
litter the floor
he knows which are left
under pillows
or in hats, or other secret crevices
he's not taming dragons
to fly
he already soars
©Erin Croley
a handful
of tangled legs and wings litter the floor he knows which are left under pillows or in hats, or other secret crevices he's not taming dragons to fly he already soars ©Erin Croley
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The original version of this poem, titled rain, was written sometime before 2005 (my post-mom brain doesn't remember dates). Two days ago, while hauling four truck loads of rock through two thunderstorms and a too-close tornado (see cleansing truths), my fascination with storms was reinforced, again. This morning I stumbled across rain, and it seemed appropriate to revisit the poem. It has a few revisions, but not many, and a new title. Enjoy Missouri rain, and a slightly altered image excerpt.
Once a part of White Girl Can't Fancy Dance, I'm still not sure with which collection it best fits. Any ideas? every night
in his slightly pee-scented bed, my little man puts his hand on my cheek, innately charismatic, and says "lay with me mommy, for 3 minutes" ©Erin Croley extra morning minutes in bed
are spent convincing dreams to loosen their grip and let me exist in this reality slightly fragmented ©Erin Croley I try to stand perfectly still
let the breeze filter the sun's warmth through my sweat-soaked clothes but my face keeps tilting up and my heart keeps beating ©Erin Croley when kids play
with art hope is painted, canvas imprints in mud and sand and scraped shins determined to find joy ©Erin Croley we left out "obey"
threw out the rest too just like the pies and extra sharp white cheddar cheese round instead of cake uniquely our beginning ©Erin Croley |
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©Erin Croley, Errant Intersection LLC
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