No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I added to memories held in the curl of these ancient, dusty, blue mountains Perhaps, I added new life to parts of myself The heat is sweltering There's just enough breeze running in the canyon to flutter cottonwood leaves I put my flip flops on and I'm off, with the wind
I felt there was a poem inside me that needed to come out, and I sat down with pencil and paper and wrote it down. When I read the poem back to myself, I cried for the first time, a good bit actually. The poem was the key I needed for tapping into the feelings that had been hanging out under the surface, just out of reach.