In Recognition of National Poetry Month, this entry is in the form of a poem. csr 4-11-15

The Day I Didn’t Die

On the day I didn’t die

the clouds slipped surely down her side.

Sheltered from our humble sight

were ice-caped shoulders, snowy bright.

I’d need to go on bended knee

were I to praise her majesty

to that she earned.

Enough to know that she was there

on the day I broke.

We had honored her before, another year,

near the ground around her skirts, when it was clear

all to the top.

We framed her well, based in blooms,

encased in blue – mighty,

more than storms to come

or ever were.

But that was another day

and not the day I broke.

Something happened wrong that day.

Without warning, without pain,

something broke within my brain,

seeped and spread and overflowed

to where it wasn’t meant to go.

And that changed all,

The day I broke.

It was a smoky day not far away.

The woods were burning,

seeping, spreading, overflowing

to the lands around.

Her majesty above the clouds and smoke,

reigning, shrouded there, the day I broke.

I didn’t know I could have died.

I didn’t know I should have cried.

I didn’t know that all would change

and make familiar into strange.

I left for home; she reigned as might,

misty floor and icy height,

soon to be so far away,

waiting for a shroudless day

when she could flaunt her glory

again, unbroken.

I hear, unspoken,

feel the touch, ungiven,

Travel well my friend. It’s not good-bye.

May you remember how to cry

and cherish the day you didn’t die.