Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Small Burning Effigies

Placing Brendan into his car seat this morning, he notices the waning crescent moon directly overhead. "It's broke," he says, pointing upwards. "Daddy, moon broke." His two year old voice carries a heavy tone of worry. I reply, "Well, maybe Granddad will fix it for you." He smiles. "Yes, Granddaddy fix moon.Yes." Everything becomes resolved. Problem erased.

183 / troops of sunflowers rise up in the back closet, then spread throughout the house— small burning effigies, casting light in all corners —

2 comments:

  1. Beautiful Glen.
    Both Brendan's observation and your poem.
    I often wonder whether - when we write poetry - we aren't seeing the world again, as children. If only our adult worries were as surely and certainly eased.

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  2. On my own part there is a conscious choice to approach writing with the creative energy of a toddler. They produce wonderful bursts of ideas and unusual insights.

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