P-O-U-...

I spell out my town's name, so familiar on my lips.

The rose hips I keep forgetting to make tea with,

the pitch of pines and gossipping voices.

Wind behind your back, whispering when your head's turned.

There's not much to do here.

You could bike, hike, run, or gossip about someone; that's it.

I'm not a great match for this town.

The very sound of my name burns bridges;

I am a force uncontrollable.

I transcend boundaries and convention.

Unfortunately, 50 years of history in this town

has made it difficult to walk undetected.

I am known by most everyone.

Some choose to accept me, others don't.

Hood and cargo shorts, #666 buzz and a name that opens doors.

I represent death in many ways.

But "she" died before you could even understand her.

With this death, a life anew.