The times when she would sit
in the small, yellow-papered kitchen
near the bay window, she would gaze
outside, silently, and I
wondered, what is she staring at?
The crooked branch that used to suspend
our plastic tire swing? The old stump
that remained after the hurricane
knocked over the elm?
Or the birds twittering around
the bell-shaped seed, proclaiming spring
weeks before the calendar caught up–
I didn’t know.
She never explained
although her eyes would try to,
quietly, but louder than the birds’ song.
Bijou 4/07 ©
......
a bit of poetry I wrote recently at a poetry workshop. :) The prompt was to write a poem that exists in between two selected poems that were read aloud by the group.
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