This post/poem is in response to the prompt: “some days disappear like…” courtesy of Kathleen Olesky. Also, though it’s presumptuous, Rumi also deserves a credit here.
(Above: writing room as seen in mirror)
Some days disappear like
Some days disappear like snow on an
outstretched tongue, quietly, others
like butter in a hot iron skillet
with a froth and a sizzle.
Some nights land like a stranger
lurking in the bushes, leaving
us shaken and afraid, others
come on us like Magi
to the Christ child, bearing
fragrant and precious
An afternoon can drawl
or contract, lounge
or catapult. Is the rhythm a
function of what we had for breakfast and
the dreams that visited overnight?
Or are they perhaps their own
small kingdoms, with rules external?
My favorite times are mornings
born of rest when the pulled
curtain reveals a lovely
soft wash or a hearty
glare of eastern light. A
new day, no matter what.
Let’s meet there, near the
windowsill and pull it up,
the sash, and lean, together,
and breathe, then shout, “Thank you!”
Here’s the Rumi poem I was thinking of.
Love your poem, Dee…….it speaks to me
Oh hi Kristin. Thank you!
What a great post.
Your poem is the finest thing I’ve been in contact with in days. It lives and breathes. I said it out loud.
And that brass window latch – better that a gold bracelet because I can feel its function, its strength.
Wow. Thanks, Deb.
the first stanza evokes all five senses … brilliant
Someone joked that they can count on me for the food references. Yup! Thanks, Liz.
Love that poem…I’m saving it to read again snd again.