When I was a little girl, I would cry
-warm, wet tears-
every September when school was starting up again and summer
-melting ice cream, cold swimming on hot days, running through tall, dry grass-
was ending. It would rain
-cold, chilling drops-
right before school began every September, too, and I felt less alone, because I believed the sky
-blue, vast, wondrous-
was crying
-warm, wet tears-
with me.
-GS
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon a Rhyme
PoetryThis is not a poem, it's a cry for help This is not a poem if it can't be felt This is not a poem for you to tell This is my poem. This is my hell. This will be the end of me This is the sway of the willow tree This was the way that you looked at me...
