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Poetry by Donna Flood
Measured Steps


Why are my steps so different
As I walk into the wind’s current?
I see others who are my age,
Willing to continue to engage,
In another time of their life,
Even before a husband or wife.
But all the wonders of creation
Seem to tap my shoulder with elation,
And I can’t tear myself away from the fun
Of being caught to see and not to run.
Unexpected there’s a whirlwind,
This force around me is my friend.
Don’t bother me, leave me,
Your words are only to bereave.
“I’m busy, I’m busy,” I cry.
“Please, please believe me,” I sigh.
“I need not talk of your race,
And I’m too engaged in my space.
“You only trip my steps of measure,
So don’t! Don’t take my pleasure.”
What a sad and shallow people those,
Who seem to only wantonly pose
The attitudes of these times of no respect,
For a woman’s needs to create with no regret.
They seem to believe we have no net.


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