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Where is the Poetry in This Day?

rosex1.gifIs it in the screech the baby phoebes make when their mother brings food to their nest on the porch rafter?

The meditative in and out of a sewing needle, readying seasonal clothes for summer?

The silence that lingers between the needle and the pen my husband is writing with on the other side of the porch?

The sound of a fat bee buzzing?

The leisurely breeze exhaling?

The various shades of green I see in the yard when I lift my eyes?

The first red rose opened to expose its sunny yellow center, picked from the garden for a vase on the garden table?

The drop of rain hitting the upside-down empty compost bucket?

The startling rustle of two mating birds as they collide and tussle, then drop to the ground?

The jingle of sea glass chimes gifted to me the last time I was visiting the beach town of my childhood.

Where is the poetry in your day?

Comments

perhaps its in the smooth flow of traffic down riverside drive
that led me in rythmn of timing to meet up with gopal
just as we both turned on 147th street.

or in the easeful joyfulness of caring for ourselves
as we chose the middle way today.

surely the presence of the muse is in this place
blessing us all, sensing its grace

r u experiencing now?

How can you be there and be here? I wrote this almost 2 weeks ago. Give my love to Gopal. xo

this is a nice challenge and certainly worth a thoughtful post when I get back.

It's in all of those, Colleen. Well done.

it is in the color and texture
on the other side of our door,
where petals open and boughs cradle
nests of newly feathered friends,
where leaves and stems reach upward
and serenity awaits me
each time i enter the gardens.

realizing my cheeks are aching from laughing so often over the day from the regular bursts of quick witted house guest.
the eye twinkle and olympic-sized pool dimple of a neighbour who has just cracked a wicked joke.
the mosquito that floated about like a dandelion fluff; we declared it a moth if not a bird.
the email that comes to just check in on how I'm doing.
the precision of thwunk of heavy knife cutting thru carrots
the full breath when cards are laid on the table
and no armageddon, as per usual
symmetrically placed books
finding a hand at book
funding plans in place
and my place in plans

the burn of the run in a hot, humid summer evening
the sweat dripping
the lungs expanding
the force of each heart pump
the swoon of complete exhaustion
the thirst that has been earned
the spinal need for salt
the surrender to sleep
the hunger upon awakening
the freedom and tether of the run

Is it in reading words of poetry that remind us of the beauty of this life? I think so.

What a pleasure to come home after babysitting Bryce this morning to find such a garden of poetry growing back here in the comments.

I love this and it got me thinking big time..

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