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
3 comments:
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... _/\_
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!!
lovely!
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