Untitled (working title)
Midnight catches us by surprise.
I wake up each day as broken as the mirror
while scarves of clouds discover each other
clearing space with so much more inside,
bound in these imperfect forms.
Waiting for you to want me, this warehouse
of anxiety should be torn down, yet we feel
compelled to talk about it. The difficulty
of squeezing our better judgment is a blue
updraft of dust and seeds and wings.
I come to the sound of my own soul singing.
I am clay malleable by happenstance.
To keep an eye on you, simply fold me up,
walk me step by step in shoes without laces.
Each accepts courage in this cup,
contained no longer by a shell —
there’s a clover patch outside infinity.
Small miracles of light bathe fields in gold
and marvel at the miracle of the ordinary
crawling through a hole, then disappearing.
The river tells me Thank you, my dreams
are the color of turquoise. This morning
the sun said yes to the fog.
/ / /
This is a found poem, in a way, for the last (gulp) Big Tent Poetry prompt this week. Thank you so much, dear poets, for being a part of my life, for being pat of all our lives.
Linda Watskin/Elizabeth/ Jeanne Aguilar/gautami tripathy /brenda w/Henry Clemmons/Joseph Harker/Catherine /Mr. Walker/Andy/Linda /Kim Nelson/Lindsey/pamelasayers/Julie Jordan Scott/Cathy/irene /Andrew Kreider /Elizabeth J. /Linda Jacobs/annell/nan/Dick Jones/dani h /vivienne blake/Mariya Koleva all represented here with bits of proffered lines or comments.
Want to read more? Go to the Tent, where a big party is happening.