(I don’t write many poems that rhyme unless they are funny little ditties. However, this has been in my head for two days and would not go away.)
IT STARTED WITH BUCKLES.
IT STARTED WITH BOWS.
IT STARTED WITH WORDS BEGINNING TO SOUND LIKE PROSE.
IN A ROOM WITH A DRESSER, A MIRROR, AND A FOUR POSTER BED
I RECITED THE PHRASES GATHERING IN MY HEAD.
IMAGINATION, EXPRESSION, AN AUDIENCE OF ONE,
I WAS THE WRITER, THE CRITIC, THE HEROINE.
I DANCED WITH THE RAIN.
I DANCED WITH THE SUN.
HOLDING THE SCRIPT IN MY HANDS SO SMALL
SELF-POSSESSED. STANDING TALL.
CONTENT IN MY SPACE
WHERE MY DREAMS WERE MADE.
WITHOUT CHAGRIN I SEE MY FACE.
THE IMAGE BEFORE ME
MY REFLECTION IN THE GLASS.
WOULD LIFE BE KIND TO ME?
WOULD THIS BE THE STORY OF MY PAST?
The Swizzle Stick 