From the upstairs window, you can see
just so much.
The tree outside, deep roots and twisted limbs.
The grass that spreads to the wood’s edge,
a bit shaggy, in need of cutting.
A late afternoon fox creeping to the quarry.
Birds sing, just out of sight.
Draw in your focus and you can see the glass,
old and wavy, pockets of air in them,
leaving the world a Monet landscape,
You write; you draw, you paint
your distortions, failing utterly at fiction,
creating your imperfect, myopic art,
all too aware of how little, and how much
About this poem
Lately, I have been thinking about how narrow a spectrum of life I write about. I have maybe a dozen themes that rise again and again. Abandonment. Restoration. Healing. Love. Faith. Brokeness. Survival. Depression. It is a picture of how narrow life can be. We are shaped by a few things, a few events, a few people that have an oversized influence on our lives.
There’s nothing wrong with that. As long as we are aware of the limitations, and what they mean to us and for us. And I suppose that is a big part of my writing and art, sorting out and making sense of those outsized themes and events, in public. Talking out loud.
Sometimes I feel as though I am like the man walking down the street muttering a bit too loud. Slightly disheveled, fascinating and frightening, both.