What would it take for a hill to become a valley and then to become a hill again?
I’m not talking about a hill.
That was the year it finally rained. That was the year the air felt like it wasn’t from around here. The year of the day when the lightning struck and then didn’t stop striking. Winds as if from nowhere going somewhere fast.
An entire suburb burned to the ground overnight.
We were stunned, never unstunned.
What would it take for a poem to not be about nature.
I’m not talking about a poem.