December: the day was gray
(be patient: I have to set this up first)
the sky hung overhead
like the wet belly
of an old gray horse
viewed from the mud
when you’ve just been bucked off.
That takes into account
the vagueness and the feeling
that something else is coming
like a kick to the head.
So I’m standing by the window
kind of soggy from walking
all that way in the rain.
Suddenly is such a cliché
that I’ll say I discovered abruptly
that there were trees in the scene
when they all turned bright yellow
as if the old wet horse skittered away.
But the animal returned.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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