Ink Showers bring Daffodils

(This is a reworked poem from a previous post that I just read for a Creative Writing Student Reading at Le Moyne :)

The doorbell is ringing; it echoes down the hall.

I cling to the corner

Peering, folded legs knotted,

A twisted root in the wood boards.

He carries...A note.

I hold my breath as it rings again.

I see him bend and slide it into a crack under the screen door

where it sticks.

No emotion; just a twist of his lips.

I was nothing

I was nothing

I am nothing.

My fingers creep over my face, shaking.

An engine revs and gravel crunches,

the dog keeps barking, pitched high and unsure.

My home, is home no longer.

A distaste for the button on the outside of the door,

A hatred for the chimes in the hallway,

I can’t use those steps again.

Because touching them will reconnect us.

The white lined paper crinkles in the wind,

Pinned in the woodwork

Each scribbled line stabs

Pens driven into the tender skin

of my neck

My breast

Pooling heavy ink in my stomach.

I rise, stretch my gnarled limbs,

and take a cinnamon poptart from the box in the pantry

and absorb the sugar on my tongue.

the wind through the window screens forces scent up my nostrils

 spring flows through the house. And the acridness of rain.

A droplet hits my forehead as I stand at the screen.

I want the words to smear.

I want them to run through and off the paper,

across the porch and down the stairs.

I want the soil to absorb the thin slice and turn it into a daffodil.

Whatever is written

I’m sure

Is not more useful than a pretty yellow flower.

Those smears of ink deeply rooted in my garden.

And I will never know.

Piercing daffodils

Tender tulip shoots

Snarling tigerlillies...

embedded with black ink...

Unknown words to feed the blossoms.

Ink Showers Make Spring Flowers

The doorbell is ringing. The echo carries down the hall. I cling to the corner
and peer around.
He carries...
A note.
I hold my breath as it rings again. But he waits no more and slides it into a crack under the door and steps down. His face is emotionless.
I was nothing
I was nothing
I am nothing
My fingers creep over my face, shaking.
A car engine revs and gravel crunches, the dog barking behind it, unsure of her job.
My home. It is home no longer.
A distaste for the button on the outside of the door,
A hatred for the chimes in the hallway,
I cannot use those steps again.
I remember the note.
The white lined paper crinkles in the wind. Paper is stronger than it looks. It holds words.
Words will change my life
and my words will change yours.
I rise from my slippery seat on the floor and make my way to the kitchen and take a cinnamon poptart from the box in the pantry. I break off a piece and feel a little better.
I feel the wind through the window screens and the smell of green leaves and spring flows through the house. And rain.
A droplet hits my shoulder as I stand by the sink window.
I want the words to smear. I want them to run through and off the paper as they should drop to my feet.
I want the soil to absorb the thin slice of tree and turn it into a daffodil.
Because there is nothing that could possibly be written there that is any more use than a pretty yellow flower.
I will turn those smears of ink into flowers deeply rooted in my garden.
But I will never know if I don't look.
Daffodils
Tulips
Tigerlillies...black ink...