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
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.