In your head, it is this simple.
A few bits of furniture,
A place and time to write and draw.
Chairs to sit with company.
Space and light.
A smattering of dishes.
It’s nice if they match.
A coffee pot. A frying pan.
The woman you love.
A cat or two for warming laps and hearts.
It never is of course.
Things multiply like teenagers in heat.
Every wind brings complications
Broken things need fixing.
So do broken people, including yourself.
Some need targets and too often you are one.
Friends are wonderful, complicated
and often needy. It’s the nature of the beast.
it happens slowly of course.
Mostly, you don’t see it coming. It creeps,
and suddenly you do. It is there,
a complicated mess called life. Your life.
And the cycle begins again. The purging
while the new blows in with the wind
scattering dust and seeds everywhere the eye can see.
In your head it is this simple,
but no where else, leaving you wondering
at your sanity as you toss one more thing out the door.
About this poem
In my heart I am a minimalist. But it never quite seems to translate into my life.
Like most of my poems though, it can be about other things. Politics, to be timely. Faith. Love gone bad. Pick your trauma.
The picture was taken in Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia.