The Place of the Poet

I try to notice
Everything about this room:
The windows, long, low and stretching to the floor,
The blankets woven with
The sure weight of comfort,
The yellows of late afternoon
When rain is done, reds, the color
Of deep inside,
And lazy blues.

I try to notice
Everything about my waking
In this bed beneath the window
The feeling that this world is mine.
This morning — I deserve it.

Then I notice, when I turn to look outside,
People peering in at me.
Women, older than I
In straw hats and crisp blouses
Their chatter sounds like birds
Waking me at five a.m., crowded
And cheerful and just a little too loud.

They see me where I am for who I am
And in their eyes I finally consent
To shrug off false visions
Of who I thought I might pretend to be.

You see, the woman who brought me here
She is my future perhaps, or who I might have been.
She is the poet who has been at work here
All these many years. And I mistook
That self of mine who got into bed last night –
That self who feels so impatient for arriving –
For this woman; this woman who created
This room. Who drew this crowd.
Who earned her place
And who welcomed me, to mine.


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2 responses to “The Place of the Poet

  1. Virginia

    so beautiful, evocative, tender, and clear. thank you.

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