04-04-2026, 09:27 PM
Meg, Home From Travel
Muscle memory:
I was once a poet
before all poems became one,
all poets became one,
I was the swirl, not the eye.
Before, before
I became the eye.
Now the tornado
has skipped, skipped
skipped and flown off
still, I am the silent
eye, seeing.
Shreds of grief, of joy
shed from my skin,
pick up speed
and rotation.
Words, they're words.
Meg writes a poem
because it's April.
Muscle memory:
I was once a poet
before all poems became one,
all poets became one,
I was the swirl, not the eye.
Before, before
I became the eye.
Now the tornado
has skipped, skipped
skipped and flown off
still, I am the silent
eye, seeing.
Shreds of grief, of joy
shed from my skin,
pick up speed
and rotation.
Words, they're words.
Meg writes a poem
because it's April.