With Golden Wings

For over a year a few projects have tumbled, repeatedly, across my notebooks; one in particular, a simple poem referencing my son's nightly bathing. The verse argued with me frequently— the page motioning forward at an extremely primitive pace. Partly my intentions exceeded the basic point of the piece: celebration of independence, vitality of a young boy after his third year.

Unintentionally, I was over-thinking the process, wanting to extend the metaphor beyond its breaking point, pulling it to a grander conclusion, an epiphany moment with golden wings, blinding the reader.

However, the reason for the poem’s refusal to transform lay in the fact the short fifteen lines were all that were actually needed. It exists now almost as a quiet, unrhymed sonnet.

[fade to soft grey with the turning of the page]

Brevity sometimes is the best answer.

A lack of resolution can act as a form of resolution.

Metaphors do not need clarification.


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