A Visitor And A Wrong Turn

Poetry, to me, is like a visitor who comes and goes as she pleases.  She comes without warning, sometimes to comfort, sometimes to inspire.  She comes at the most inconvenient times, either while I'm at church or trying to sleep or out with friends.  She never comes to break up the boredom of everyday life.  She never comes when I call her or when I have a pen handy.  She's very peculiar that way.

Her gifts can be great and unexpectedly wonderful.   But other times, she leaves only a few small trinkets.  While she visits,  she gives me a tantalizing earful, and always makes me promise to remember everything she said.   Then she leaves, just as swiftly as she came, and I'm left with a promise that I rarely, to her satisfaction, can fulfill.

A few weeks ago, Poetry heard I was in an accident and came to visit.  I was crossing the street and was hit by a car making a left turn.  He must have been distracted.  He didn't see me and hit me full on.  Now I know what being hit by a car feels like, not that I ever really wanted to.  But in case you're wondering....  here's one of the gifts she left with me:

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Flipped

The river of life floats gently, ever onward,
As my feet move across the same old street,
The same old street,
At the same old time,
In the same old way,

Then, suddenly...

shock strikes me like lightening as my brain, for a flash of an instant, comprehends what is about to happen. the oncoming green sedan flips my dreary world upside down. pain bursts through me as if nothing else had ever existed. my face hits the windshield, and through my pounding head, i hear a crack. the pavement greets me with a thunderous blow. my body throbs, and my legs are twisted. i taste something bitter and see blood staining the ground.

the contents of my life and purse are scattered on the street...

And the river takes a turn.


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Read Part 2