Monday, January 17, 2011


We sit on the small veranda of our first, common home.
We drink wine, beer, water.
We eat our dinner, laugh, kiss, talk.
The seeds we planted last year in our garden have begun to sprout.
They will bloom this year.
We take in deep breaths
of basils and frangipani
and give deep hugs
and share the news of days past.
We talk all night, in low voices, in whispers, slowly.
Late in the morning
fatigue is sweet and tender.
Peacefully you go to sleep.
And I make coffee and go to my desk.
I have poems to write.
Poems have to be written.

I hold the pen
looking for words
a first word, something

The room is silent.
The table is silent.
The chair is silent.

The paper remains blank. (I am empty.)

The paper remains blank. (I am full.)

I turn off the light.
I snuggle in our bed.
"Poems will not be written”, I happily declare.
And go to sleep

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