Winter crawls out of the woods
and swallows the town. Shrews slip back
to the woodpile. The road
slides downhill. Black and white tiles
embrace on the kitchen floor.
Coffee thickens in the pot
while lunch congeals on the plate.
The planet turns through crowded space.
Dust drifts under the door.The dog dozes while the cat
dreams of eating it, one black paw
at a time. Darkness rubs
my bedroom window. The quilt
exhales cedar and mothballs.
In my afternoon dreams, I
ride a rolling ball through star-
cluttered skies. Bears climb to their dens.
My sheets pile up like snow.
POEMS
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E - F
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I - J
K - L
M - N
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W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@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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