My poems are darker than me.

Sometimes it’s imperfection,


But sometimes it’s because

the world is sad.


There’s a story of a singing clown

who doesn’t speak,

traversing this world with

only a lantern and a briefcase,

spreading sadness and beauty.


Like his name, his life

is a gathering of broken glimpses,

interrupted reflections

pooling randomly on the ground

after the downpour.


I like that

he makes no attempt

to join the dots or

paint a smile

on his lined face.


That he makes no effort

to assure others, simply

finding his own song of sadness,

making it beautiful,

then leaving the stage


with only a box of tissues

left behind to remind us

to embrace sad beauty.

That muddy puddles

are part of our song, too.



One thought on ““Puddles”

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