Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day -- part of the National Poetry Month celebration. While I have been woefully remiss in celebrating on the blog this year, I am going to tuck a poem in my pocket today, and I hope you do too! It's a lovely reminder of the power and beauty of words.
If you looked in my pocket, this is what you'd see -- right after I smacked you for looking in my pocket:
Mother, in Love at Sixty
by Susanna Styve
Reason number one it can't work: his name is Bill. For god's
sake, he hunts. He has no pets, other than two doting
daughters, and his ex-wife is still alive. He's simply not my
type. Who wants to get married again, anyway? I'm too old.
I go South at the first frost. Plus, he's messy. Men are messy.
He could die. Then where would I be?
And in my back pocket, there's this -- from a poet I took classes with, years ago:
How Things Are
by Philip Miller
You asked me to tell you
how things are,
why we rarely speak, never touch.
Words won't come.
In the garden, yesterday,
the pampas grass turned silver,
whispered in the wind,
the edges of its leaves
felt sharp.
We were weeding petunias,
and I touched your shoulder,
spoke your name.
You jumped,
as if all afternoon
you'd been resting
sure you were alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment