Saturday in CinCity
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
please note:photo by McBeth
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
please note:photo by McBeth
This is so wonderful :-).
ReplyDeleteHey, Blissful...e.e.cummings is for you:>)
ReplyDeleteAll of your words hit me - one after another - bringing to me images - not yours but mine - and sending me on my way today with colours dancing in my head.
ReplyDeletewell hey i'd like to dream that i was glory bound but deep down inside
ReplyDeletemy suspicion is i'm just a steam wisp
disappearing out that window....
much enjoying your writing
Hi!
ReplyDeletei like the layout of your blog very much. It's subtly different and artistic.
Nice, too, to read a bit of thoughtful poetry. :-)
Very evocative poetry. I can smell it, hear the sounds, see it all even. Thank you, that's art.
ReplyDeleteLovely. With bizarre synchronicity, my Other Half said to me this morning that he thought we were put on the Earth to be God's Orchestra - to make music for Him and WOW! my word verification is OSING (Oh, Sing!).
ReplyDeletebeautiful- poetic xxx
ReplyDeleteThe Random Thought to the right of this post, about speech as our second possession after the soul...by Gabriel Mistral, would take us so far into space and back...
ReplyDeleteAnd so it goes, one day after the other. One ending leads to a new beginning. I think I needed this today girlfriend.
ReplyDelete"How can we get up in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do..." How absolutely profound. It really set me thinking.
ReplyDeleteLove the way this wanders so beautifully, so visually, through the interior and exterior world of the speaker.
ReplyDelete