On Epiphanies


Bright as a daisy, ready;
Somerset Maugham would have
liked this day,
he picks up thorns from your ashes
and says you could have been happy,

tailor made, new shave;
you return to the daily grind
you begin stripping maple trees for
rubber trees for sap

they won’t let me see, and I’m still drowning
I’m still in the bathtub and I’m blaming my stubbornness
I’m held in a circle that is your arms and I said it was nothing
and feeling, like acorn to seed, small and give feed
you said hush and gave me your shoulder and I said that’s all I really ever asked for

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry


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