Heather Christena Schmidt

Seriously … I haven’t the foggiest idea how to write poetry.  I don’t know the first thing about poetry.  I do know I like Rilke, Plath and Frost.

Untitled


Lightning –
it flashes on my skin;
glows on my flesh
as I fall to the ground.

I am drenched, I am wet;
and yet as I fall I am transformed.
Once I was a bead falling through
the sky.
Now I am ashen and thick.
I have mixed with the Earth,
where always I return in utter solicitude.

There are so many around me,
falling to the ground and soaking through.
And when I merge with another,
we become indistinguishable.
Always the same.
Always falling.
But still landing alone.

It grows warm and moist –
the air is thick.
I am again transformed,
and the cycle begins again.

I am like rain.
I am water.
Ever transforming.
Forever falling.