Sunday, April 20, 2014

npm: 04.20

I didn't write a poem yesterday. I was too busy hiking and soaking up the sun. Last night I went out. I fought the urge to hermit myself away and instead met some new people and danced my ass off with an old friend. Just one of those days where you get caught up in living and there's a pen nowhere in sight. Yesterday was its own sort of poem. I needed that.


Today's poem is comprised of three haikus.


04.20



It is how you can
smell a season. It is what
you tape to the walls.


Hills hides the dancers.
I look up and still myself
to see the clouds move.


Rare these days become--
the ones that threaten time,
the ones that feel like God.

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