*in response to my n'th reading of The Book Thief by Mark Zusak*
It's 11am and 257 pages
The words have rinsed over my beaten and bruised soul
as the rain.
Constant and in giant gentle drops I search for the rain during the night.
I'd forgotten that Leisel too reads
to break apart the nightmares
I collect the rain water in my lap
And the ways of the washing of these words gives pause
To place the book aside and pour the sum of words over me, repeatedly until I am clean.
Chipped, no shattered, I am clean.
And now my words rise from the belly of my pen
And stumble cautiously, clumsily to the page
And are triumphant.