“Everything has to be somewhere,”
if anything became lost
(and something always became lost
in a house with four kids,
two parents,
a cat
an iguana,
countless jars of even more dead spiders,
and,
a dog).
Every cell inside me,
still,
at the age of 56,
demands that he is wrong
about everything-
except one boistrous cell whispering
Even water,
as it fades from the puddle,
is merely shifting
form.
And I feel sorry for having been so stubborn.
Photo and poem by Donna Z. Falcone