Ren Powell, Poet | Playwright | Teaching Artist

A morning of hurt. I suppose there will only be more of them in the future. When my right knee seems to hinge awkwardly, as though some ligament has jumped out of its groove.

My left hamstring singing like a piano wire. The painful high note of the soprano’s aria. On the edge of a scream. Then falling along the scale.

I take a deep breath and search for balance in the objects of the world. How equalibrium is something discovered. A subjective perspective of the way of things.

Walking this slowly, I notice the reflection in the puddle on the sidewalk. Yellow leaves hover over shadows.