k.daigle

A person can write, though it doesn’t classify them as a writer.
To be a writer, you must know how to play with words, 
to wield them like weapons, or use them to stop wars. 

As a child, Christmas felt like a dream. 
It felt like such a day couldn’t exist,
like we would wake up to December 26th, 
and go on with our lives like normal. 

Christmas felt like not being able to sleep, 

Upon normal occasions, the girl liked water.
It was calm, smooth, rolling upon itself, self-reliant and assured.

But when the wall of water came upon her village, 
when it cascaded down upon her home and life,

I sit in the silence, 
windows open 
wind blowing gently,
And try not to think. 
But the music, the music, the music
No. 
I imagine the silence, 
refuse to listen to my own mind. 

The clocks stopped two hours ago. Or so we think. 
There isn’t really anyway to tell, of course. 
They let us go from school early, 
except cars didn’t work, phones didn’t ring,

     I feel alive when the sky breathes, when the mountains I ascend hug the horizon and fill every crevasse in my fractured heart, when the smell of decaying leaves shoves it way up my nose, when I feel the mud beneath my feet as I sp