She was like both the storm
And the calm that followed it.

She was the thumping of his heart,
But also the ache that kept him up at night.

She was the smile and the laughter,
But also every tear he cried.

He never knew if he loved her
Or if he was just used to her.

Used to the whirlwind that she brought
And to the peace she allowed, from time to time.

Was that not love? Enduring both?
But, he wondered, was he ever the same for her?

Was he ever her storm and her ache?
Her tears and her chaos?

He didn’t know. He wondered if he ever would.
But he did know that he would never leave her.

She was, after all, like the storm
But also the calm that followed it.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

There’s a muse in my showerhead.
Must be. No question.
She whispers in my ear right
When the water is at its hottest:
An idea for a story,
A character I have to write.

But I don’t take pens into the shower,
And definitely not paper.
So by the time I’m finished,
And I’m dripping onto the mat
And tripping on the way to a journal…
The idea is gone.

There’s a muse in my showerhead.
But I think she needs to move
Somewhere more practical.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

I’m going to look out
Over the ledge of my memories.
And maybe, just maybe…
I’ll fall into one that I like.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

I wasn’t always like this.

I never used to like the wind–

I used to like the rain.

The two are so different;

Most don’t understand this,

But it’s as true as the sun versus the moon.

Most think they are the same,

The wind and the rain–

Both stormy and angry.

But it’s not true:

The wind is running and the rain is staying.

The wind rushes ahead;

It comes, it goes;

It takes tree branches

And roof shingles

And then leaves us to pick up the pieces.

The rain stays behind,

In puddles and in the soil,

It floods, yes, but it also nourishes.

It stays. It does not run.

Not like the wind.

Nowadays, I prefer the wind.

But I used to like the rain.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

I listen and I watch,

I observe and I enjoy.

They ask me why I’m sad;

I glance up in disbelief.

Why must quiet equal melancholy?

For me it is peace,

For me it is the chance

To watch the never-ending show called “Life.”

I tell them that I’m fine,

Which is true, but also not enough.

But what else could I say?

How could I explain to them,

The butterflies of the world,

The joy that comes from being wallflower?

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

Call this lady what you will–
Karma, or Justice, or Sweet Revenge–
Her stale perfume will find you still
And hunt you down until the end.

She came for Charlie in leather and lace
And feigned sweet kisses on his cheek,
But left him begging for a taste
And splattered all across the street.

She came for Blake so surely next
And poked and prodded like a child
Until his only route for rest
Was in a cell for all the while.

So now the question left to ask
At least as far as I can see
Is when she will take off her mask
And, at last, reveal herself to me?

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

You cannot show emotion,
You cannot let them in.
For if you do…
If you do they win.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

Is it any wonder
That the species
Who felt the need
To name the stars–
To label the miracle
Of shining pinpricks
In a quilt of night….

That such a species decided
Each impossible light
That had already traveled
Lightyears just to be seen
As points of hope
In blackness….

Yes, that the species who decided
Each star must be tagged
And studied rather than
Simply loved….

Is it any wonder that
This species,
Called humanity,
Feels the need to label
Everything?
Who we are and what we are
And where we are
And where we’ve been
And where we’re going?
Is it any wonder that
Such a species must
Designate rather than
Simply be?
Rather than simply exist
And spread light…
Just like the stars above?

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

When she came home, late one night,
The dandelions had all gone to sleep.
But by the next morning, they were awake,
Full and yellow and kissed with dew,
Awaiting the day to come.

She kept the dandelions in her yard
As long as she could without the neighbors
Turning up their noses.
They might be weeds, but they were weeds with smiles
And weeds that helped the bees,
And weeds that announced that spring had come.

And, after all, even after the mower
Had done its job, ridding her little yard
Of the “weeds,” she knew it would only
Be a matter of days before they returned–
Full, and yellow, and kissed with dew
Awaiting the day to come.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021

“Kids can be cruel,”
A mother says
Of a nickname,
A new game,
Or some other
Schoolyard woe.

“Kids can be cruel.”
It implies that someday
We stop being cruel–
And yes, that can be true.
I’ve seen the helpers,
The defenders, the counselors,
The teachers, the peacekeepers,
And so many more.

And yet the cruelty doesn’t end.
The helpers aid those who have been hurt;
The defenders, those who have opposed;
The counselors, those who have been weakened;
The teachers, those who have been ignored;
The peacekeepers, those left in the remains of war.

“Kids can be cruel.”
Yes.
And so can we.

Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021