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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
| This is a poem I wrote this morning for our poets' gathering. I've made several starts on it, one part or another of it, both in poetry and just journal entries. Tell me if this could stand alone, or must I do more explaining. I tend toward saying everything in my poems, that is, making them more like prose. I wanted to try it doing it differently. Making Virtual Amends Spattering leaves changing to yellow, hair relentlessly to grey, heat of youth and summer cooling welcome. Season of harvest and abundance tallying the fruit of life. Sun low, strong bright obliques, high shadows, late day drama highlights warm the pungent atmosphere of memory. Contentment intruded on by small regret, a chorus in a minor key: Why didn’t I? Why did I? urging me to actions of atonement, canning applesauce and tearing out the loving stitches to remake a dress. |
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