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Poetry
It Matters
I see the sun’s pale rising on the Melaleuca tree.
The shadows climbing its trunk with each hour passing.
With the coming of winter, finding a blanket, a scarf. Soon it will be gloves with the tips cut off.
Harder to get out of that nest of blankets where I burrow my head.
The dance that is too hot, too cold, too hot, too cold.
The poetry of me in this everyday life.
The poetry that is in all of us, makes us singularly spectacular.
The old woman who keeps her cats inside while she sprinkles seeds for the sparrows.
The father who takes an extra moment with his daughter.
Staring into her golden-brown eyes. Capturing her gaze. Letting her know she is seen.
Before a final peck on the cheek and out the door he goes.
The poetry that is two lovers sitting side by side, casually reading their papers. Yet their fingers are entwined. “I am here.” They sing to each other, “I am here, and I love you so.”
So, what is my poetry in this mundane beautiful life?
It is in the surprise of a finch perched right outside my window. I watch, frozen, as it cleans itself. Fluffing feathers lightning fast in…
