Where Poetry Goes to Hide
Poetry
Energy shots from oak barrels of apple cider vinegar mixed with cranberries became our morning ritual. Mushrooms and sweet peppers for lunch.
For dinner, some poetry served al dente. With just a little bite to it.
There came a knocking at the door. No one there. No package, no deliveryman. No sunshine on the cobblestone. No snail or sapsucking lanternfly looming at the doorstep. Just another interruption.
My days are quite unpoetic. I go back in, to tend to things that need to be done, one by one. Leaving precious little time to scribble fragmented thoughts on the backs of tattered envelopes or backed-up to the hard drive.
And you begin to wonder where poetry goes to hide.
If only the words would come flying down the chimney or knocking at the door. Poetry is more like persistent raindrops gently tapping on the windowpane or smashing against the rear axle of your brain.
Can poetry be hiding somewhere under piles of dirty laundry or beneath the elderberry?
Although there is some translucent energy in the morning and serenity at twilight, I prefer midnight for sipping the mocha moonlight, where I either fall fast asleep or get held hostage by poetry.
Is it between the bedsheets that poetry goes to hide?
Grace notes: Yes, this piece was inspired by a mysterious knock on the door, with no one there. Somehow, I must have allowed a lanternfly to enter the foyer. And yes, I am perpetually being manipulated by time and my to-do list. My secret for coping? — multi tasking is the way to go. Last, but not least, I am perpetually intrigued by doorways, always wondering where they lead to.
Dear reader — what inspires you? And where do you think poetry goes to hide?
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
