A ring-around-the-rosie sky.
Frost like the absence of shadow, like darkness has been pulled out of everything. Temperature in the mid-20s. Cold like an abrasion of skin. Pond like the reflection of a perfect world. A stillness we can depend on, if we can depend on anything.
I know how I see the world, this morning, everything. You wonder how others do. What is it they rise to? You cannot know for certain - it won't be the same as what I see: that's why there are different philosophies. Yet aren't all poems stanzas of the one poem? I wait my turn, I write my lines. Where is it all headed?
A mile to the north of Fairwater a blizzard of seagulls explodes above a field. Those birds are still here. They what they think they want, like the rest of us. Wanting what we think we want hinders our evolution, our progress, our growth. Going where you've gone, you see no new territory. Not choosing sinks the ferry even before you get aboard.
Found my way here through random clicking while working on Poetry final for Bill Holm. I love the drive journal. It's something I've always wanted to do, born of my 45 minute commute. Good on ya.
Posted by: Gette | December 18, 2007 at 06:26 AM
Ah, yes, as if one can actually take a Poetry Final.
Good to read on your blog that the bottle of whiskey mellowed his Holm-ness.
Stop by any time!
Posted by: Tom Montag | December 21, 2007 at 09:45 AM