Through closed windows
I can hear the sound of water rushing.
I know there is a photo screaming to be taken.
But that requires rising up
from this alter of depression –
At 3 pm I decided to meet the schoolbus.
It’s sleeting now.
Staring at my keys with longing,
I leave them on the counter.
Forcing my feet into boots,
I go outside.
Holding the camera to my breast
I take the first timid steps.
It’s such a small reward I am headed for –
A photo of a waterfall
I’ve seen a thousand times before.
But the only escape,
from this prison of blues
is through pictures and rhymes,
with water as my muse.
december one twenty sixteen | becca andre
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