rain slides down the window in rough sheets
the garden drips and broods unseen alone
as if the birds were gone they sing unheard
the very walls hang portraits of gray stone
slow water dripping softly in the sink
gives rhythm to our thoughts and muttered words
a cat observes a spider weaving nothing
and writing this seems just a bit absurd
fingers frozen in idyllic pose
anticipate a past when things got done
no sword I clutch no ploughshare shapes my palm
my disposition strikes all anthems dumb
Instead I sit and listen to the rain
and drink the drops that dull all endings’ pain
i’m amazed at the experience i can see blazing through your craft. it’s kind of humbling, but more a wordless experiencething. got 100$ worth of poetrybooks for my bday and been reading a lot and slowly opening my eyes to the infinite levels of genius others possess. my own business, maybe, but i was inspired to leave more than a one line response after reading. thanks
Thanks, Drew. I like this one myself, although it is a bit of a downer.
Happy Birthday. I hope you are including ee cummings in your reading. A healthy dose of Walt Whitman wouldn’t hurt either. Al Purdy and Gerard Manley Hopkins are some non-American poets worth looking at as well.