Clouds move in,
bringing a chill to the afternoon.
In the kitchen, the dishwasher
surges rhythmically.
And, brow furrowed, I am trying
to coax words into submission,
by pretending
they have already been written .
The dog is waiting at the door,
urging me to follow.
Upstairs, neighbors argue
and drag furniture across their floor.
And, breathing shallowly, I am trying
to coerce words into submission,
by threatening their very existence
on the page.
A friend calls, but I cannot answer.
Outside, a man mows the deep grass,
mounds of fragrant cuttings in his wake.
And, fists clenched, I am trying
to beat words into submission,
by flattening them
with a large wooden mallet.
The sun moves toward the valley’s
western rim.
Somewhere, an owl calls, a cardinal,
a wren.
Despairing of ever wrangling those
iron-willed words into submission,
I walk away.
And so they fall neatly into place.
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
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