A Bucket of Questions

Late at night, you write.
In the morning, you write.
Spilling bits of you on paper,
every day, more,
saying just enough to survive,
to let out the torrent in your heart.

All these years and the language of the heart
is still foreign,
a thing to be learned as you use it,
How can letters and sounds reflect
something as ephemeral and tender
as the heart?
how do you know what to share
and what to hold close?

I am bucket of questions without answers,
a love note of madness and hope
written in the dark.

About this poem

Actually, as most of you know, I write in the morning, not the night, but darkness fit the poem better. As Michelangelo said at 87: “I am still learning.”

The picture was taken at the Vanderbilt mansion in Hyde Park, NY.

Tom