For What It's Worth
words exchanged between friends
songbirds calling from trees
dishwater, coffee, cats in windows
piles of clutter, a pine cone, an ant
my own tears, to do list, too many miles
fading daffodils, new leaves, pens,
blank sheet, an empty paper bag,
that infernal blinking cursor, time
I guess maybe writing can be a dangerous thing. This poem started coming to me while I was doing dishes and ... boiling water for tea. I left the kitchen to write this down and the water boiled away. The smoke alarm went off. All is fine. This kettle is twenty-eight years old and has been boiled dry many times and it shows. And shit, LOL, that in itself is a poem I guess. It's not quite noon and the day has already been too full.
2 comments:
Oh, I like this one.
Thank you Craig.
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