I.
In this moment of silence When nothing is needed from me No husband demands my attention or dog my caress
When there are no more friends to call
When there is nothing left to clean And all screens have been shut off When my to do list for the day has been achieved or abandoned and tomorrow’s has not yet begun,
When I stop being a machine and no person reminds me of who I am, When the burden is released,
Then I momentarily approach the precipice: feeling the night my own breath the ticking of the clock the hooting of the owl the fabric of carpet beneath my feet the heaving of cicadas
and the wafting of sweet, warm pine through a bedroom window. The mind, for a moment, becomes spacious and there is an ecstatic bursting.
Thoughts turn to past loves, which seem like past lives,
And I realize, with a crackling accuracy, my aliveness. I am here, still young, still full of love.
I have much to say and dream of my poems,
still inside me – seeds waiting to spring forth.
II.
Every moment could have its own poem, every second on this earth:
a gilded leaf falling from a black locust,
a ripe hatred,
a decimating love,
a thoughtless word, my voice echoing in my head, in brain matter and in the muddy earth.
Whether we notice it or not,
poetry surrounds us, inside our bodies and enveloping us,
every breath a jewel that sparkles.
III.
There isn’t enough time for poems,
Like there isn’t time enough for love, or for God.
Poetry must be eked out in the in-between times,
Off-grid,
In unexpected breaks in the schedule, In low points in our daily routine,
In the only places where we allow ourselves silence and stillness:
The bathroom, the porch, at dawn.
Before the machine gets going,
Before our lives begin.
Why can’t we recognize our lives as we live them?
