This is the fifth morning I’ve contemplated coffee.
And stared outside
at the white haze of winter.
Through the windows
of this beautiful little bungalow, its creaking wood, which will soon be
celebrating a one hundredth birthday.
I love this house. I love its contents, including the two souls that live here with me.
I’m not really contemplating coffee
But wondering how poets write about “gardening and nature and shit”
and really mean something
I want to write about
a tiger or a begonia or a telemarketer
and have its meaning be only discoverable by those who try.
Propped up in bed, reading
each line, then each word, and smiling slightly.
“Oh. This is not a poem about tigers.”
Here I am, not even a poet,
already trying to craft the
prose that doesn’t exist.
To quote myself as I’ve sipped my coffee
each morning this week,
muttering under my breath:
This is ridiculous.
January 24, 2014.