Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Thursday, November 11, 2010

A Prior Life

At twenty thousand feet
I think of you, and our children
In rooms I built for them.

The space was simple, shaded by old trees.
Our house was not tall.
But a few rooms,
At the edge of a marsh.
The dry reeds blow in winter wind.

Beyond them lies the bay.

Angry waves churn white
The brown mustard softens the gusts,
Trees shelter us from the rain.

Smoke curls from our chimney,
Our simple dwelling of wood and tile.
Egrets wander about
looking for crabs.

We spent long hours reading books
and drinking tea.

Our children gone, moved away,
You wore out and left me.
What is the meaning of another pot or poem,
When those you love are no longer?

Life shot by,
Numbed I look back,
at dreams. All that stands,
moments fragile as grass.

Better to be a poet, or make pots,
and make preparations to leave this world.

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