The Poet’s Slope.
A poem from Swannanoa.
Photograph by @thislittlestreet
I’d like to have a house, a cozy house, where poetry is alive.
Where writing is god.
I’d like to have a house, where the cross of the threshold reattaches “smack!” the umbilical to the endless self.
You are fed bite after bite of “yes that!”
And “no, no, not that.”
And “yes that!” again.
Tuning your arrow.
Tuning your arrow to years from now.
Where are you aiming son? Where are you aiming daughter?
Follow your breath, where does it lead?
Fogging your glasses, before you wipe clean the smears from your muddy-gardened hands.
Over hot oolong on a rainy summer morning.
As soothing words that wash the ear of a dear friend, who sought your embrace in hard times.
Where loved one, does your breath lead?
