2008.02

Sunday, 02.10:

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)