Apr 05

The Comparison of a Storm and My Needles

In my home
I have drawers of broken needles.
Ones that failed to thread the water from winter brooks
onto the taunt fabrics of spring.
Wind whistles over ice,
music walks over clouds.
Bass becomes electricity,
drums, thunder.
I miss you the storm cries,
reaching up toward the sky.
The humans collect the rain.
 
About the Author: fire girl
" to choose to write is to reject silence" - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
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