Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of poetry.
I want to see the world as the poet sees it.
Writing about the glint of sunlight as it passes across the kitchen table. Fading, as it reaches a place setting for one.
The poet sees the world in doses of what is before him. The things we pass over.
He holds a bigger perspective by thinking small.
The bottle of midnight perfume placed on the mirrored tray atop the dresser. Abandoned now.
He doesn’t tell me that I am in my grandmother’s room. But I know that. And I know that she is gone.
I read poetry because it feeds me.
It usually comes in small bites. So I can imbibe for a scant moment in time.
And it soothes.
It gently pulls me into a time and place that are not of my making. But I bargain to understand.
She sits there with gloved hands tapping the bench as if trying to record what she cannot see.
I can sit with my book of poetry as life spins around me calling me to pay attention.
But I pay it no mind.
I am right there with the poet. Seeing life in close up.
As he does.
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