[This is a poem because I never write poems.]

A poem to me is like an abstract painting.

It doesn’t have to make sense.

In fact the less sense the better because then your mind has to formulate new ways of seeing.

I stood around a fire.

Three people, including me, didn’t speak.

One woman with tattoos on her neck kept cackling.

The wine wasn’t free.

The hay bales were covered in plywood and the kids looked like they were having more fun than the adults.

It wasn’t a barn. It was a shed.

And when I’m dancing hard enough, I don’t need vino.

My favorite moment: a little boy kept grabbing everyone’s hands to form a linked circle of dancers. The circle grew and grew until we all were dancing together.

That boy is going places!


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