Revision

In poetry, we were assigned to write 12 or so poems. Then we've got to revise 5 of them to turn in as a portfolio on Thursday. Here are my five:

------

NINTH

The September sky:

It’s not quite blue anymore –

Washed out, actually.

Miniscule red bug

Crawling across my paper,

Savor the sunlight.

Sitting in the grass

As summer draws to a close,

The red bug, the fly, and me.

------

OCTOBER

That darkened street,

And the streetlamp – orange,

The smell of snow was on the air.

Your hair was down and loose

And you ran

As fast as you could down the road.

So much energy.

Your fingers buzzed with it.

Boundless energy and laughter

And secrets.

You were always running then

Laughing then dancing then

Playing then wishing then

Living, then.

Where are you now?

On this cold October street

Under this orange streetlight?

No.

You are gone with The October,

That one so long ago.

You chose a different path,

A different Creation that wasted you.

But you knew what you were leaving behind,

And you went willingly.

I ask you now,

Do you have any regrets?

And you reply:

------

REACHING

The leaves are all

Fallen. Finally, October

Has ended. Nothing

Good has ever come

From that month, and

I escaped

Unscathed

This time. But

Now October

Has grown arms, and

It can reach

Me here. In

The safety of November

The memories return.

Why? Where will

I find peace? And

When will I

Be freed from this

Past nightmare?

Where do I go to

Hide from my

Own soul? Can

It be done when

The past refuses to die?

------

BORN FREE

In no way could I tell you the truth now.

I dare not break your heart more than I have.

I was not made to bend and scrape and bow

At husband’s feet till I’m laid in the grave.

I love the wind, the sky, the earth, and rain,

The lightning and thunder, the burning sun.

They bid me follow them again,

To this rough-hewn valley I now call home.

You would not - you could not - follow me here.

You are content to stay just where you are,

Living in suburbia year after year,

Where city lights make invisible stars.

If you’d go with me, would I let you come?

I dare not do it. I need my freedom.

------

WASATCH

This forest, these hundred-foot cottonwoods,

They tower over everything –

Powerful, majestic, eternal.

Deadly.

It was here, among the trees,

On this sweeping green lawn,

In the lush, wild, untamable forest,

With the clear cold creek running by.

It is here where we lost

Our wife, our mother, our grandmother.

And here where we lost

Our daughter, our sister, our cousin, our granddaughter.

They were wise and fair,

Beautiful as the roses

For which they were named,

And, like roses, too soon cut down.

See that towering cottonwood there?

One hundred feet, at the most.

The one that killed

Was even taller.

We’re not afraid of these trees,

Not anymore.

Year after year after year

We return to remember – to immortalize.

It’s been ten years now.

The two young memorial trees

Are growing strong,

A beautiful flowerbed at their feet.

It is here where we return

To remember their lives – not their deaths.

We plant those flowers for them –

Because they want us to live.

They want us to live like this forest,

Green and growing, alive, eternal.

The trees and us – our roots go deep.

We’re alive, and we remember.