Yes, yes

Tuesday, November 5, 2024

I once heard poems described as

living, wild things 

running and almost ferocious

blazing through the earth 

waiting to be caught

waiting to be told 

by the right set of hands 

Was it Mary Oliver? 

or maybe Atwood 

Ah. The internet 

Bless

Ruth Stone! 

I don’t know anything about

Ruth Stone 

lol 

But I am glad that 

somewhere 

in the past, on a day 

and in a place 

that I don’t remember 

I read about 

Ruth Stone and 

poems. 

And it left a strong enough image  

in my brain, that 

caused me to 

lift myself up from my pillow

and lean on my elbow in the dark 

of my room

(5:54 am, or somewhere close to it

husband heavy beside me)

and tap tap tap 

as these words rushed by

me, grasping 

with something like a

child’s butterfly net

to catch magic

I think it has passed.

the next part, on 

to someone else but 

let me just say this:

gratitude

gratitude

gratitude

for magic 

and in turn, beauty

silently, but persistently

waiting

demanding, for us 

to notice, to notice (could this also be a metaphor for women? yes, yes) 

when your son asks, 

what is fog? 

to notice 

curly hair and morning breath and 

the massive monstera leaves 

the color of persimmons

just there, existing