It is dark here, even in the sunshine,
a small window with blinds drawn,
a glow, but not enough
that you have to turn on the desk lamp,
a tiny artificial sun that leaves a circle
of light just where you may or may not write.
Funerals and weddings. Poetry and letters.
Together, a journal of your life, only
they are written and sent out into the world,
not collected or saved or hoarded.
This is on purpose. By design.
You seem to need emptiness,
to start, every day, uninhabited,
and like Magellan on the seas,
wait to see what the wind will bring,
emotional manna, not to be saved, only experienced,
trusting that whether sun or storm,
when it comes,
you will be enough.
About this poem.
Every day I seem to start anew emotionally. I take a few moments in my journal asking myself, “What am I feeling?” Poetry is part of that discovery.
The picture was taken at the Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Parke, NY.