A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.
I suppose everyone knows the days upon which silence interrupts speech and softly manipulates the soul into unburdening its deepest fears. Upon such an acerbic May day I rode beside my brother in his car, passively watching the clouds and silence debate whether they would rain.
“John, ” I said quietly, “I’ve been worried about something.”
He mumbled, which I interpreted to be encouragement to continue.
“I am terribly afraid that one day I will have a child exactly like myself.”
His solution was simple.
“Stop being you.”
“Who should I be?”
The clouds had won, and droplets danced playfully on and about our car. I thanked my brother quietly, and turned to watch their pattern disturb my reflection in the glass.