All day long, the rain came down
to soak the mountain, drench the town.
Each dog stayed in to curl into
his protective curlicue.
I took their lead and kept inside
as the world around me cried and cried.
I will not say I’m feeling down,
though I did not choose to paint the town.
My marks on paper turned into
other than a curlicue.
I painted what I felt inside
with words that folded in and cried.
Their pigments bled and rivered down
joining currents from the town,
and tears from other creatures, too,
joined this watery curlicue.
This whirlpool that we’d kept inside
joined us together as we cried.
The sun comes up and moon goes down
over country, lake and town.
Illumination cycles, too,
through reason’s dizzying curlicue.
When we share these truths we’ve found inside,
others hear what we’ve decried.
The whole world may be feeling down
dreading contact with the town.
The words we free may catch them, too,
in their discursive curlicue,
loosening pain they’ve kept inside–
dispelling tears they might have cried.