The trees that line the twisting road,
lean in to drop their words in bright red flurries.
Silent sentences, unheard by speeding cars.
I watch one almost curtsey to me,
slender limbs in silhouette.
And I forget the fifty things that filled my head,
that chased me from my Sunday bed.
I need this distance.
Miles of asphalt moving me away from Monday.
Driving far enough to hide me from the glare
of screens and stares and acronyms.
Out here I can resist the grip of blackest boredom
burrowing through my brain to leave me numb.
I photograph each precious moment,
trees and sea and sky and him.
And when I must return to that dark shadow of existence,
I keep the pictures near enough to glimpse,
my bliss, my hope, my small resistance.
1 comment:
I can't wait for your anthology of tree poems when it's released ; )
This is really lovely - sets up that grr monday stuck in a hellhole feeling so well.
I was listening to a Robert Pinsky lecture where he said something along the lines of: music atrophies when it moves too far from dance. Poetry atrophies when it moves too far from music. Your writing's a great example of that musicality. I love the music of the third stanza - not just the full rhyme of "...dom" and "numb" but then the lovely use of "acronym" the nym sound with numb and boredom is a touch of class lady.
x
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