this afternoon
I am doing nothing
but sitting here
reading poetry.
the muse is resting
she has lots to do
right now.
she simmers and burns
and holds things close
this is gestation time
I understand
the birth will come
when
the words are ready
and so I sit here
hot coffee
brick walls
cheap leather sofa
laptop open
music in my ears
and let the words
fill me
isn’t it lovely
I think
to absorb
to take in
to soak up
to call this
work
to name this
seduction
to file away words
and phrasings
jotting down
ideas that will one day
become
on the next sofa
two women sit
dancers
indescribably lovely
I can tell
by their posture
and the way their arms
speak stronger
than their words
fluidity a part of
their bones
their bodies
poetry
even while
sitting still
I read love poems
and stanzas on loss
and the heat of sex
and the diaries of lovers
long dead
and the imaginings
of fantastical worlds
there is wisdom soaked
into sentences
I claim it for
my own
my eyes skim
lips curve in a smile
hips shift in response
sometimes a sigh escapes
unbidden
because the combination of
a particular set of words
and the music in my ears and the
light that shifts just so everything
appears illuminated by magic
moves my soul
to a private
call and response
that is one of
the most true
forms of
worship I know
and this
will not make me rich
will not write
that novel
will not pay
the bills
will not move me forward
there is no
success to be found
in the beautiful light
or the ageless poems
or the perfection of rhythmic
beat
but today
is not time for any
of that
it is only a day for
loving words
for bearing witness
for filling up
for giving over
for waiting for
the lengthening of days
and the coming of
the light
to what feels good
for no other reason
than that.
and so here I sit
doing the important
work
of reading poetry
and giving thanks
for the choices
that have
brought me
here.
