I wake in pale light. Swallows
carving the sky, and in the distance
the raucous voice of the crow. This
long day opens out before me.Dreams flee. I have forgotten
how to hold them. A little sugar,
a little salt. Wine in an etched glass.
Green grapes and a pear's soft curve.In the garden, I eat an apple
and cheese. The apple gone soft,
too long in the bowl. I feed
the brownish half to squirrels.The cheese is hard, speckled
with mold. I cut away its crumbly
skin and pick at the rest. I wanted
crisp sweetness, cheddar's sharp bite.I eat these. They are what I have.
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@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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