132/365 - 136/365

In the oven, a chicken bakes, clicking and spitting in its own juices. The house is warm with scents of the food, left-over garlic and a basic litany of herbs.

Reading Mary Oliver, her early works. She has a profound way of making me pause between pages. One is forced to meditate on her work in a way that is not often evident with more contemporary writers. On the surface her words appear plain, minimalistic—but the verses carry a heft, as a stone…

A day to read poems
and then slowly fold up fresh
laundry in warm piles.

Boys with sticks poke at
a brown toad carcass left on
the side of the road.

State the obvious:
frustration of a blank page
and errands to run.

A moment clichéd:
the full moon descends over
the back garden wall.

She simply stands there.
In the middle of the road.
Watching cars speed by.


Popular Posts