This isn't the time of year for glorious, full-throated
birdsong, halos of sunlight on a bright green lawn - I know that.
Right now, what matters is not getting more mud into the house,
resisting the catastrophe of a thunderstorm, knowing
how to feel your way in the dark when the lights go out.
This morning, crossing a damp road to the path into town,
it would have been easy to mourn the downed camellia
drowning in an opaque puddle. The playground, empty of toddlers,
might have seemed joyless, the definition of abandonment.
And the sky, with its monochrome detachment, begged for neither
sorrow nor astonishment.
Instead, the path lay before me like a grey
but beautiful suggestion, the simplicity of distance
between here and home. The single, unglamorous act of movement -
that's how I walked.
3 comments:
Love the image -- thought at first it might be a Gustav Klimt I hadn't known about. Then I thought it might be a photo you took, but now I just don't know. Don't NEED to know, but I am curious.
More importantly, your poem, touched me as many/most of your words do. This time I had the pleasure of reading it aloud to a couple of guests who appreciated it, too. One of the guests is a writing friend to whom I'll be sending a link to your blog.
Hope all is well in your world.
Oh, Maya, you make even dreary ol' January sound gorgeous... I've given you an award...details at my blog.
A visit to your site here is like dropping in on a friend who understands even the things I don't say. ...thank you
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