*Sometimes I feel like I’m living with a stranger
I’m talking to myself
The branches hang down to the stream
A tilt to somewhere else
That I don’t know
Words are gathered and turned to stone
Scratch and blow to see old bones
I don’t know why
We keep it tethered, our world unfeathered
We’re out of step, so don’t forget
To keep your ear to the ground
Returning home to meet the stranger
She’s talking to herself
From scratch, she bakes such lovely cakes
But words are somewhere else
That I don’t know
We tilt until the room is feathered
Or blow until the stone is gathered
I don’t know why
I can see her avalanches turn into sharpened branches
To break her bones, so don’t forget
To keep your head to the ground
*Lifted from Three’s Swann Street as are the rhymes and rhythms. Submitted to No Theme Thursday (the two pictures) and The Sunday Whirl Wordle #669. This poem partially reflects on the time with my second wife, Kyoko and how, eventually, our cultural backgrounds couldn’t be overcome.
1994ever 
It’s a very tough situation I’m sure. I’ve seen friends go through similar and they often ended up very frustrated to say the least. Excellent poem, good sir. 👏👏👏
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Thanks Kevin. Yeah it was frustrating at the time but it got me to where I am now at least.
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We don’t always understand the path we’re on, but it usually leads us where we need to be
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Simply a beautiful poem.
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Thank you 🙏
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I liked this a lot. Well-written.
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Thank you Kymber 🙏
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A complex work. Still processing it.
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