The little pieces you picked up.
The little pieces you carried once
in your hands,
held next to your body,
smeared onto your skin,
tugging at you:
the fragments you hold on to—
the ones you did not want to leave behind.
From “Spring’s Resurrection”
April’s not the cruelest month,
but a warm resurrection.
From “Severed Roots”
But the rainy season never came
and the drought never left.
as I scraped back bare soil—
the earth I once remembered—
the remnants of what I started with.
From “Commuter’s Tears”
Oil rainbows evaporated in the rain,
leaving only the memory behind.
Poetry prompt for the day:
#2 Write a poem of regret. Maybe it is a poetic apology. Maybe it was something you did. Or maybe it is something you didn’t do.