TheCourtRose

They have called it a miracle when streams meet oceans, and lightning insists itself across the sky Flowers unfold and weep their petals away Bees continue their dance- the tale of ages marches on A miracle? I ask Perhaps not, but simply the way of things What else do flowers and lightning and bees know of the world? Yet, when two souls make a choice Standing together amidst the chaos of a thousand rifts and voids Knowing at each crossroad to come, both must choose together or not once more Is this not the miracle? It is the way of things to choose and choose again But that every time they have chosen each other- a living fairy tale For what do lightning and flowers and bees know of love? They know nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this

Here, on this knee is the thumb tack scar from the Wal-mart parking lot where I bit my lip and did not weep And there, on my belly and chin, are round pock marks, hole punched skin from chicken pox too numerous to count Yet me without a whimper, enduring the oatmeal washes Over the left eye, where her cat took its swipe, I remained silent because I knew what I deserved Criss-crossed and hop-scotched across body and time, a litany of choices and swallowed silence Would my flesh be clean, I wonder now, had I just learned to cry out instead?