I cut my teeth on poetry when I was little, I used to know a lot of it off by heart (there’s just snippets of a lot of that left, blowing around my mind like leaves trying to remember the trees they had been blown off a long time ago…) and I went through a period where I wrote a lot of it – I really used to write a lot of poetry, in two different languages even, back when I was a teen, or in my early twenties, but it kind of devolved into a “special occasion” thing and I wrote a poem here and there when prose just would not cut it.
Today a poem came wandering by. So I thought I’d introduce you.
Sunday
I glanced at the clock and time is slipping
into the sliding hours of late Sunday afternoon,
the kind of moment when you stop, and you think, oh,
it’s going to be Monday soon
and this thing or another needs to be done when the world wakes again
into the workaday frame of mind
and you write yourself a note or a to do list to remind you –
and then your eyes slide off the clock,
and outside sunshine is lying lightly on cedars
but spring is late this year and the cold still lingers
and it’s only an illusion of warmth and light limning the branches
and it suddenly feels exactly like what it feels like deep inside you
in the silence of your solitary heart
the empty Sunday afternoon
haunted by the absences of people
with whom you once used to be together
and from whom you are now
and on every Sunday to come
apart
“…the empty Sunday afternoon…”: story of my childhood!!