Draw

Like a vein without blood

Till a storm transfuses it into

A wet-weather creek

Something pulsed through her

Pooling around the rough parts

Till it bled over the banks

Closing the gash

That had waited

For so long.

But then,

Some call it

Seasonal.

 

[from Hill Country & Other Poems by Renee Walker, published by Fixin’ To Press]

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