This one is a favorite. Yup, I really, really like this poem. Hope you do too.
Right now, there’s nothing as important
as these words, the way they trickle
down the page like a dark stream of water
or the way they remind me of bird tracks
cluttered in the snow beneath the bird feeder
or, for that matter, the fallen sunflowers
dotting the snow like the fragments
of a shattered shadow. I’ve little interest
in the flood of sunlight rushing
through the bay window, over the couch,
and onto the floor where the dog
has fallen asleep and is quietly yipping
at the rabbit she must be dreaming about,
the one I assume she wants to chase
in an open field where the grass grows
as thick as the shag carpet she’s sleeping on.
Nor do I have time for the weave of tree limbs,
oak and ash, birch and beech, that remind me
of a family holding hands, joining minds
and spirits in prayer. These words are soft
and cool, like a favorite pillow. They curl
on your lap like a old cat sinking into its nap,
purring, purring. Sadly, soon they’ll end.
The phone will ring or I’ll realize I’ve lost
my keys or the neighbor will throttle his motorcycle,
urge it to growl, unleash its dragon,
moments before he rumbles down the street
and over the hill, chasing the sunset.