01 Jun · Wed 2005
This Poem's Kiss
Tonight, I start another poem that will not be finished. Yes, there will be something— a knock on the door, a teakettle whistle— it will catch my attention and I will put down the pencil, rough lines left hanging, words making only half sense. Then the phone will ring, or I’ll decide to take a shower. These thin sheets of paper will flutter softly, touched by sunset and a breeze from the open window. Honey colored shadows will creep across the floor, the deepness of night swallowing table, desk, and chair. Tomorrow I might find this half-poem sitting here alone, and think it ugly. Or I will touch it and it will stir, alive again, breath whispering words I haven’t yet thought, scolding for my negligence, forgiving, with a kiss.
Tonight, I start another poem that will not be finished. Yes, there will be something— a knock on the door, a teakettle whistle— it will catch my attention and I will put down the pencil, rough lines left hanging, words making only half sense. Then the phone will ring, or I’ll decide to take a shower. These thin sheets of paper will flutter softly, touched by sunset and a breeze from the open window. Honey colored shadows will creep across the floor, the deepness of night swallowing table, desk, and chair. Tomorrow I might find this half-poem sitting here alone, and think it ugly. Or I will touch it and it will stir, alive again, breath whispering words I haven’t yet thought, scolding for my negligence, forgiving, with a kiss.
