I’m beginning to really enjoy this process. I haven’t gone back at looked at the collection of writings so far but have a growing awareness of an accumulation. It’s interesting to me that all day, I thought I had been too busy with other things to be able to think about swollen but on reflection I had in fact been focussing on it with effort! Poetry is so much about noticing or it’s where it starts. Maybe I’ll call the jotting Small Miracles, Repeat.
All day, I have nothing
but an oak twig covered in lichen
then, just before bed
a poem crawls out of its leaves.
I haven’t even been looking
at the leaves, staring instead at the woody
body, wondering where it could swell.
It couldn’t. It was dead in my mind.
Sometimes, I crawl out of myself
and the sturdy pain of my body
Gasps at my audacity
but I’m already gone, breathing solo.
another kind of happiness 