The Puddle by Sam Wildow

The repetition.

The sounds of hammers pounding my bones,

tools scraping and shaping – a reformation –

into something I never was – never wanted –

a post-it note.

A blur – a sea – a collage of colors and lists –

words that need me – words for sentences

to form ideas to form – an epiphany –

an identity.

All I heard was fuzz – static of the reruns

of my days, of my soles scratching against

the treadmill – until I heard your voice

in the reflection of a puddle.

Gritty pavement washed in mud, the acid of

my own tired breath, and the soaked leaves

left behind a season ago – until the flat water –

became the branches from above.

Like ink stains absorbed in a mirror, whispers

of a stillness – a place of rest after drowning of

all this post-it-noted life, of all these paper


of these fears of becoming one instead of

remaining two, of never truly being happy,

of never, of never, of never.  Never for you.

A place of stillness

not hidden, but uncovered.  Spoken in silence.

Puddles of dirt – new beauty, untouched, yet

a quiet hope becoming of all my days.

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