Almost, but not quite there.

Here's a poem I've always liked and I think it's pretty good. It's just not...right yet.

Any thoughts?


My grief breaks me, I will not bend.

Really, what’s wrong with breaking?
Maybe the mighty oak was destined to break,
instead of bending like that stupid willow
(or reeds or whatever it was)
in the irritating fable we get
nagged with when sorrow strikes.

Breaking, the oak is transformed
to warm and cheer a dark night,
provide rest for the weary or
a place to meet and nourish the lonely and hungry.
The willow (or reeds or whatever) just wavers
unchanged, unusable, useless.


The oak and I will break and we both will be created anew.

Hope.

Emily Dickinson said
hope is a thing with feathers,
delicate, light, and small.

I think hope is giant beast with
fangs, claws, and fur.
It crashes into your life,
mauls and
remakes you in a form
unrecognizable, never before seen.
Then, with a final brutal, ravenous bite to your
mangled face,
sends you out stronger than you were.


c. Linda Mercury