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)

%d bloggers like this: