I’m writing this
from the remaining embers
of my subconscious.
Where we just spend the better half
trying to find one another.
I wrote the directions down, but
the letters didn’t line up –
the numbers ran like water.
Ink never dries on paper in a dream.
Finally, we bumped into each other.
Frantic on a stairwell.
A collision of flannel.
A hug in chaos.
A sigh of relief.
And then I was falling…
Trying to grab bits and pieces in the ether.
But that was like trying to catch
thread on an endless bobbin
in the wind.
Note: Sometimes a poem falls between the cracks and I forget to collect it somewhere or make sure I capture it so I can remember what it was about. This is one of those poems. I wrote it sometime in 2018 and it could be about anything or anyone. But I can see the stairwell in my mind when I close my eyes.
Funny the things we remember…
Tribe Of Flannel 