Puddle

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” — Robert Frost

A poem hoovers somewhere

above me, just out of reach,

I know there is something

I need to free, some image

to get out, but just now 

I am preoccupied with a pain

in my knee, the heaviness

that comes before sleep,

and the listing of weekly

demands that begins every

Sunday evening, so that poem 

will hang above me like a cloud,

but one day the rain will come,

the words flood over me until 

I build the dam, tread into 

the deep water, drag myself 

to dry ground, wring my soaked 

skin out, and somehow shape 

the remaining puddle into meaning.

—C.L. Fisher, February 2021

Unless otherwise indicated, all content, including writing and images, are the work of C.L. Fisher and may not be copied, used, or distributed without permission.

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