Sometimes, I write poems.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
All my life I’ve carried things.
So many falls so many springs.
Frosty mornings, cooler eves.
Boots below me kicking leaves.
Crooked handle, dented in.
Squeaks against the rusted tin.
Target practice, I’ve been there.
Years in barns with not a care.
Rediscovered, then re-used.
Refilled, hammered, and abused.
From this truth I have rebelled.
I’ve carried nothing. I was held.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008
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