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  Mar 2016 Kate MacDonald
Sarah Garcia
maybe it was a fit of nostalgia

or the way the light reflected off the glass

but I swore in passing

I saw you

and for a split second

my heart stopped

whether out of fear or joy

I cannot say


at second glance

it was a stranger

so perhaps it was you after all
Kate MacDonald Mar 2016
The trees look sad and wilted over.
Broken and mangled.
Awkward and bent. Droopy and still.
Some try to stand tall, others fall.
The weight is too great to bare for some and pieces crack, brake and fall  off around them like flowers placed around a grave, forever encased in a sparkly crystal coffin.
When the weak ones fall, with anger they drag down the other trees, shrubs and branches and leave a path of destruction around and behind them.
The rest of the trees pitty the poor little houses that by fate and misfortune lay in their way, being crushed under the weight of the weaker ones.
When the snow clears and the ice melts away, will they ever stand as tall as they did again?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Nobody will know until the storm has passed and settled and spring has rounded the corner.
Most will continue to bloom beautifully.
Others will remain in the misshapen, broken state that winter left them in.
Over time, prettier and stronger trees will grow around the broken and weak and cover them until they aren't noticeable anymore. Leaving the forest looking pretty; from the outside. But inside, it is hurting and crying out for mercy.
You can interpret this poem however you like. I wrote this while driving to my cottage after an ice storm. I found beauty in the destruction that the storm had left in its wake. But I would like to think the trees represented more than just themselves. Maybe humans and how we deal with disaster- whatever it may be. Everyone deals with trauma and disaster differently which I can see represented in these trees. Hope you enjoyed.
Kate MacDonald Feb 2016
The thought of this is too heavy.
It weighs on my brain.
It washes out my eyes.
It dances along the tight rope that is my shoulders.
It tips and sways and lingers on my finger tips and my bones and leaves space where there is damp darkness.
It drains the pink in my cheeks and replaces it with a heavy hollow.
Kate MacDonald Feb 2016
Sometime in the winter you'll lie to yourself and say you'll do all the things you didn't do last year. The nice thing is that you know one thing will stay consistent from year to year- you'll say the same thing next year.
Kate MacDonald Feb 2016
If you open up too much, people can fall in and hurt themselves.
Kate MacDonald Feb 2016
It is selfish to ask for one more day when you've already had so many. But what if that one extra day is extraordinary?
Kate MacDonald Feb 2016
"the hardest thing to do when you go back underwater, is talk about what the sky was like."
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