simile is like a ladder
pretending to be a metaphor
like a wink that forgot the joke
like saying this is that
while nervously crossing fingers
it behaves like a bridge
made of comparisons
like duct tape for meaning
like a dog
dragging yesterday’s newspaper
in today
simile is as polite as a knock
on language’s door
as clumsy as a metaphor
with training wheels
as helpful as pointing
saying that—
but pointing sideways.
it stacks itself like mirrors
facing mirrors
like a thought
wearing another thought’s coat
like explaining love with weather
or silence with snow
or itself with itself—
which is a whole lot
like chasing your tail
and calling it clarity
like a Kansas flatland twister
the act of creating
is contained chaos—
all may seem peaceful
but a storm is coming—
a storm of arriving ideas
thoughts and visions
pitching and spinning—
beating against the tried and true…
ricocheting off the status quo…
ripping the roof off the mundane—
new images
colliding in midair—
bursting like skyrockets
unfinished phrases
twisting in the mind
tugging at the soul’s treeline—
terms and concepts
rivering forth—
a potent and most beautiful chaos
attention splinters
scatters wildly
the pulse quickens
as if the mind
must outrun itself
to find the calm—
to find the ”eye”
then something ignites
like a time bomb
as time reshuffles
momentum takes over
as I am pulled upward
then inward—
down blurred corridors of my mind
where light narrows
as intention sharpens—
thoughts—
concepts—
and insights—
that I’m shocked are mine
begin making themselves known—
like someone vaguely familiar
wandering into a candle’s light
it is here I greet them
befriend them
and become intimately acquainted
outer world dissolves…
clocks lose relevance…
hunger becomes theoretical…
the body is reduced to breath—
and hands
hands become tools
tools become possibilities
I cease resisting
inside this whirling
cone of creation
energy feels boundless—
thought welded to action—
each idea feeding the next
at impossible speed
like a raft in a rapids—
like rain off a rooftop
words arrive faster than doubt
color…
form…
cadence…
phrase—
everything aligns
everything insists
I do not notice fatigue
I do not notice time
eventually the grip loosens
I break free
unsure if it’s morning or night
though I am not concerned
just curious
and fascinated
the room reappears
the body makes its demands—
…water
…food
…care
—much rest
I attend to them slowly
still glowing
because I have returned
carrying something solid
something wonderful
a nearly finished work
…shaped
…resonant
…breathing—
alive
evidence of what I created
evidence of where I’ve been
The arrival was gentle, respecting status. In the foothills of western Oregon, rain wasn’t an event, but a condition — something the forests gratefully expected. I walked the short road through town, past the closed café and the post office clock that never hurried — letting the moist air caress my face, drops settling upon my cap and jacket.
By midafternoon the rain found its rhythm. It stitched the forest together, thread by silver thread, darkening bark. It loosed the heady petrichor of the region — blended conifer, moss, limestone, and fertile earth. Falling water speaks in several dialects here — on leaves, on needles, on tin, on the slow creek that remembers everything.
That evening the rain thinned but didn’t leave. It lingered as mist, as mountain breath. Lights glowed warm behind windows, and the forested hills leaned closer, keeping me warm and peaceful in my sleep. I dreamed the rain was not falling, rather embracing, and quietly listening — perhaps somewhere that infamous wood chuck did too.
rain kisses cedars firs embrace the sky-waterm soil welcomes its friend
Original DDE™ art: “Chasing Simile” by: rob kistner © 2/4/26
