how could i forget to write if it's
like breathing, like so much love, like something
vast and necessary, how could i forget and yet
i did, spent the week out of my room, wooed by tulips,
by clouds dissipating and the vigorous onset
of spring. even the word "mid-April"
feels as ripe as tangerines, which is enough
to set my pen aside, head to the kitchen
with food in mind, real food, forget the adjectives,
and this morning i piled it on, not just butter,
but the belief that not writing is almost as good
as reverence, as the precision of sun through skylight,
as a light drift of perfume from another woman's shoulder,
which calls for breathing, too.
3 comments:
you had me at "butter" (i'll admit my addiction.... hee hee hee!) this is sublime... every line, but especially "the belief that not writing is almost as good as reverence" thank you for forgetting to write... and then remembering. :)
this poem helped me see further down the road. lovely word images and butter always lures me along its path. luscious.
with food in mind, real food, forget the adjectives
Very witty. *grin* Just what every writer needs... to be reminded of every now and then.
Loved the light tone of this piece, and, of course, the characteristic fluidity that prevails in most of your poems. Thank you for sharing it. ^_^
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