Thursday, November 05, 2015

Thursday Poem - It's Monday morning

It's Monday morning,
mid-November, the world turned golden,
preserved in amber. I should be doing more
to save the planet—plant a tree, raise
a turbine, put solar panels on the roof
to grab the sun and bring it inside. Instead,
I’m sitting here scribbling, sitting on a wrought
iron chair, the air cold from last night’s frost,
the thin sunlight sinking into the ruined
Appalachians of my spine. I know it’s all
about to fall apart; the signs are everywhere.
But on this blue morning, the air bristling
with crickets and birdsong, I do the only thing
I can: put one word in front of the other,
and see what happens when they rub up against
each other. It might become something
that will burst into flame.

Barbara Crooker


Mystic Meandering said...

And in the writing of the words I sometimes think we "save" ourselves, doing what nurtures our own souls. And perhaps in doing so we somehow make a difference in the world, or in anyone else who reads them. One can only hope that our words make a difference in the world... I know yours do :) in my world anyway... _/\_

christinalfrutiger said...

Beautiful poem, except, I don't know where Barbara Crooker lives but there is no birdsong or crickets calling in my neck of the woods in November! :) Especially after a night of frost! Sigh!!

Suzi Crockford said...