Tribute to the Tempest

I love to stand on the water’s edge

when it’s storming and

let the wind blow clean through me.

Cobwebs of resentment and bitterness.

High shelves cluttered with regrets at might-have-beens,

too tall for my short-sighted arms and legs to reach,

to dust off.

Dark cupboards hiding the rage I never express because

nice people – especially nice women –

don’t get angry.

Grief.

Grief.

Grief.

The howling storm razes it all, down to the bare rock and sand.

A fresh start, a blank slate, and every other cliché you’ve heard for

beginning anew.

I don’t care.

I don’t care that I’m unoriginal.

The first murder, the first rape, the first war. They were all original.

Who needs that?

I wouldn’t mind being the first daisy,

though.

Or tThe first time a new sun kissed the dew from the first daisy.

Or the first time the first daisy began, joyfully, at the new sun’s first kiss, to photosynthesize.

Barring that, I’m okay with trite and banal,

Tired but true.

Tried and true.

My truth.

Image by @whoisbenjamin.