15 May Full Eavestrough, by Iulia Rus
Sidewalk leaves blown in miniature tornados,
Swirling, swishing ballerinas paired in the tango.
Time and growth demonized, autumn decay romanticized.
Not so satisfying, once it’s muddy, wet and full of sticks.
It doesn’t itch, it doesn’t crunch, it’s stuck in the eavestrough.
Why am I like this?
Limbs, twigs, turned featherlight,
Caught in the winds howling through a tunnel
Vision clogged by tears.
Caught between a rock and a hard consonant.
Why am I stuttering?
Littered layers saturated with water,
Gutters swollen with organic infection.
Too many falls, too many fevers.
Branches are hard to swallow,
Poking against the soft walls
Of my downspout esophagus.
I think I need cleaning.
Winter promises a long respite.
Snow promises a soft blanket,
Fog promises a silent night.
Frost promises a tender touch,
They all promise me,
“You will be okay.”
They all comfort me,
“You will not drown.”
They all soothe me,
“Eaves will pool with leaves,
And gutters will swim with clutter.”
I am who I am meant to be.