sigh. another poem about the weather. i'm in a major, end-of-may rut.
matinee
clouds so low, so dark
they're grey blades
of a helicopter we duck
from, but watch warily
supple trees doubled,
afternoon crushed
by downdraft, scattered
we salvage what we can
grab, slide between fenceboards,
squeeze sideways from the day
i leave my gardening gloves
palm-up on the lawn,
two helpless hands
unable to cup the rain
we can't hear or see
inside the blacker day
of the movie theatre
4 comments:
Mmm. Forgive me, but how is writing a poem most days a rut?
Not every poem is for the ages, in an exercize like this one, but I think writing - even when you don't feel like writing or feel like what's being produced is worth posting - is better than not writing.
I understand the end of may rut, the enthusiasm's a little thin, but wow, you've been hauling serious ass. congrats are in order.
Like the "gardening gloves
palm-up on the lawn,
two helpless hands
unable to cup the rain"
and the clouds as helicopter blades.
I mean a rut of weather-related poems... but since that's what I spend most of my time thinking about and pining about these days, it's pretty unavoidable.
I'm enjoying the weather poems. I agree with Bren on liking the "gardening gloves", and I also liked "squeeze sideways from the day".
Not a rut. A theme.
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