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

drownings,

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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