By Connie Wanek
Tears sometimes come in a bottle.
Twist it open and apply drops
several times daily
if you haven’t enough of your own,
if you’ve begun to see light
on a humid night in the country,
black and brooding. Nothing.
And then a lightning strike.
a crow in the corn,
and a face you love stops smiling.
A temporary burning sensation
is normal. Perhaps
the woods twice as thick,
two hunter’s moons,
one trailing the other. It may be
you’re not blinking enough
Bottled weeping: break the safety
seal, tip your head back, force
your eyes open, and let
the tears fall in.
I liked this poem Shannon. Sometimes it’s the right thing at the right time.