poem draft | Ordinary Things
Sunlight through the dining room window.
The philodendron’s silhouette in the curtain.
Snowmelt dripping from the eaves. A roiling
windgust tosses ice crystals that I mistake
for gnats. But it’s cold. They do not fly;
they’re flung. A long shadow already bisects
the window. It’s the ordinary things,
I know, that give me the most trouble.
(on a line by James McMichael)