Peach Storms

Do you ever have those days when the only way to express exactly what you feel is through a poem? Sometimes the best way to explain yourself isn't to simply describe your feelings as joyful, sad, excited, hurt, or lonely. Instead, the act of writing about something else while channeling these emotions is more liberating and beneficial.
Here's a verse...

                                                                      Peach Storms

                                              the month the hail fell like peach-storms
                                              and the rain plinked like lemon drops
                                              was a long month for me.
                                              that flippant way the sky would throw down plums
                                              made me want to cry as they slapped my cheeks
                                              like unwelcome tears.

                                              I recalled a lighter time,
                                              a time for birdsong and crickets,
                                              a time when toads leapt higher out of the mud
                                              and my boots stood guard 
                                              yearning for raindrops
                                              moments when
                                              I could hear the stream rush by,
                                              the willows a listless echo of my thoughts.

                                             but pulp from overripe tomatoes churned its flesh
                                             with oak leaves that summer and the clay
                                             of the earth frothed like stew.
                                             I stood pale and opaque against the bright fruits
                                             of the garden that only glowed more as i sank deeper,
                                             no match for the tall trees and their children.

                                             but when the storm finished 
                                             the color gave up its fight against the rising mud,
                                             its pulp holding me firm in the ground.
                                             a visible blush circled my chapped fingers
                                             clinging to a branch of that breezy willow tree,
                                             a last desire exposed,
                                             its desperate shade the only color i had to offer.


  1. Beautiful. Tugging upon oneself like a circuitous vine.


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