Thursday, April 9, 2015

Day 9 National Poetry Month 2015

comforter, clock & pictures from Sherrie

I missed the sunrise this morning;
the cocoon I slept in under my comforter
was just too cozy and warm to leave.

So, by the time I got out here on the porch
the sun was an inch above the trees
and the light was fading from gold to yellow.

Like my ideas for a poem are slipping away.
Instead I watch as my shadow, reflected
on the slats of the house, slides closer to the floor.

I think of the first comforter I ever had.  I chose
it myself before heading to college.  No more
bedspread for me, no more sisters invading

my space.  A fluffy comforter to read under,
or I should say study.  I loved that thing.
And so what if my roommates were nuts.

Karin with her Doors obsession. The heavy beats
of "Come on, baby, light my fire" like fog
to walk through.  And Norma sitting in front

of a candle, a picture of her lost boyfriend
in one hand, her depression dripping from her
like wax, trying to catch the flame with her fingers,

hoping the scorching would blot out her pain.
I haven't thought of them in years.  They're
like my shadow getting closer to the floor,

almost gone.  The past is an old clock
like the one I have of my grandmother's,
my mom's mom, that sits on my hall table

but doesn't tell time except twice a day.
It looks so pretty from the outside, all burnished
wood and fancy hands but the inside is empty.

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