Writing Pieces

Poetic license.

By March 31, 2020One Comment

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of poetry.

I want to see the world as the poet sees it.

Up close.

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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