Sunday, July 3, 2016

Bats flitting after moths, tiny frogs bouncing across a gravel road, granite boulders erupting from the earth like enormous eggs, a slit of sunset between an arch of trees, baseball on the radio, a hand on my knee--

I am still so tired, but recovering. This morning I sit next to a vase of pink roses, a skim of black coffee in my cup, and wonder, What now? The question is neither plaintive nor impatient, merely there. I feel fragile, as if I am living inside a soap bubble. Something about this past week has peeled back my skin and replaced it with vibration.

"The blood jet of poetry," Plath wrote in Kindness.

The blood jet.

1 comment:

Ruth said...

Listening to a repeat On Being: Poetry often has an intelligence that the poet doesn't have. The cat sneaks in.