April 1, 2021This Writing
I don’t want to let it get away from me,
this writing. Sometimes it slips from my
grasp and I spend days looking for it and
other time it’s here and pouring out as
fast as this pen will move. We walked
through the streets of old and new
neighborhoods on rain-soaked sidewalks
with tiny worms washed from lawns
clinging and dying on bits, and in crevices
of pavement. Washed away, and I stepped
on some of them and had little concern
for their survival.