I wrote this a short while ago, just before the Boston Marathon Bombing, not knowing exactly why or what it was for–it was what came through, what wrote itself.
There is no knocking,
this dark stranger of disbelief, of incivility
who, without warning, arrives
at your door, shouldering past, coming in.
Some wild force of nature, a hammer—
you never could have predicted (although there were signs),
you crumble.
And everything gives at once—porch chimes,
trash cans, the roof, your life,
what’s not nailed down.
A wild plethora of Dogwood petals in pink set free,
fly past, slam to the ground.
A grief presaged
in blossoms
unleashed, their splendor still intact
in the rubble of what’s left.
Grace and grief together, an annihilation,
yet to be understood.
Loss can come at you like this when
the telephone rings.
© 2013 ~ S. Wolfington
April 23, 2013 at 9:10 pm
Very powerful…
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April 17, 2013 at 7:25 pm
Who knows what it exactly was? When I was writing it, I wasn’t consciously thinking of anything personal or impersonal. There was no emotion attached. And as writing goes, I am not always in control of where it goes as it often takes on a totally different life than what I had originally planned when I first sat down to write. I do know that things come out or are revealed sometimes that absolutely surprise me, and afterward, I will think, “Where did that come from and who exactly wrote it?” I always say that ideas come to the willing, and if you are not willing to carry it, it will move on to somewhere else who is.
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April 17, 2013 at 10:57 pm
I know some my writing came out of nowhere. It seemed like I was the tool, and God was the author
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April 17, 2013 at 7:05 pm
Was it a premonition or ESP, in which the context of the story unfolded in your head? Good Job
Susie!
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April 17, 2013 at 4:11 pm
beautiful Susan,
is it about Boston?
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April 17, 2013 at 4:44 pm
Thanks, Linda! Yes, as it turns out, it is. I was hopeful that the photo would show that. I wrote this a very short while ago, not knowing exactly why–it was what came through, what wrote itself. Now I know how and why.
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April 17, 2013 at 4:49 pm
I thought the pic was from Boston but was not sure.
Regarding your poem, don’t you love when that happens?
love, Linda
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