mid-November, the world turned golden,
preserved in amber. I should be doing more
to save the planet—plant a tree, raise
a turbine, put solar panels on the roof
to grab the sun and bring it inside. Instead,
I’m sitting here scribbling, sitting on a wrought
iron chair, the air cold from last night’s frost,
the thin sunlight sinking into the ruined
Appalachians of my spine. I know it’s all
about to fall apart; the signs are everywhere.
But on this blue morning, the air bristling
with crickets and birdsong, I do the only thing
I can: put one word in front of the other,
and see what happens when they rub up against
each other. It might become something
that will burst into flame.
"It's Monday Morning," by Barbara Crooker. Text as published in Small Rain (Purple Flag, 2014). © Barbara Crooker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.Art credit: Untitled image by unknown artist.
Good poem, Barbara, and very timely. I share the feeling. I love the image of "the ruined Appalachians of my spine."
ReplyDeleteBeautiful words, just now bursting into flame.
ReplyDeleteThanks Barbara.
. . . put one word in front of the other and see what happens when they rub against (lovely image!) each other. . . .
ReplyDeleteI love this part. It not only reminds me of what happens when I write, but when I play music in a string quartet, combining our notes, one right after the other, seeing what happens. Sometimes the notes do burst into flame, the flame of passion, or joy, or sadness, or love. Thank you for this poem which deeply touches my heart.
Captures that feeling I so often have, a mix of whatever I do isn't enough, the world is so beautiful anyway, and I must do the things I can in hopes they make a difference.
ReplyDelete