Coming Into Your Own

A window sill. A glass pitcher. Light. A bar of soap.
and time, of course. It is the thing missing
all too often. Time. Empty staring out of the window time,
not even to see. Not caring it the branches are waving
or still. Not caring what flowers are in bloom
or deadheaded or…

Simply time and space and light enough to dream,
enough time to put up with your thick head
and slow heart, enough time to pull verses
out of the mist and discover what it is
you feel, long after others have felt
and forgotten, you are coming into your own.

About this poem

I have written of my being slow to process my feelings before. I am sure I will write of it again.
Also a poem of what goes on behind a still life. Even still things have a story. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom