I like the idea of an everyday poem.
A shadow of a rod pointed toward the pole star
crossing a half-buried blue plate
in the soft garden soil
at about ten o’clock.
Not a moment to write home about –
Oh look! There’ a house finch on the wire –
and what do you know about that?
I’m already here.
I think I’ll break for an early lunch.
A cat nap.
And then maybe I won’t write
anything monumental on my walk today.
I thought that maybe I should mention
that it’s Wednesday.
And now that I have, it seems
even too mundane for a capital letter.
But if anyone should read this,
why would they care if I get
afternoon sunshine in my eyes
or that it’s all merely
water under the bridge?
Really, it’s not like this everyday.
Sometimes, I only write words
and sometimes it’s little
more or less than nonsense.
I try to have supper with someone
I love at six.
Almost everyday.
2 comments:
See Heraclitus, for his theories? I'm glad you write, and get sun in your eyes. Love the photo, but the dishes look too nice for the dirt. Take care,
Trix,
I so frequently think of Heraclitus's saying that no one steps into the same river twice that I just use the shorthand. I'm reasonably convinced that Heraclitus was making a joke, but over the years people have assumed he was being serious - that is paradoxically profound. I don't even take the same walk more than once - though I usually repeat the same route when I leave my house. There's a Steven Wright joke in which he says that someone broke into his house and stole everything, then replaced everything with exact replicas. When he asks his roommate to come see, the roommate says, "Do I know you?"
The dishes are seed plates from the thrift store. I'm hoping to have a set of eight by July or August. Not sure how long it takes.
bert
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