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
2 comments:
ahhhh......so much fuel for the day in these words.
Thursdays...I always look forward to the poem.
What a lovely poem... thank you, as always, for sharing.
I took some cool photos of the moon tonight. Thinking of you, of course.
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