A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
My mind is weighted toward sorrow
and I feel unbalanced when I walk.
There are old rooms there, certainly,
that I’ve now abandoned, with their coffee spills
and unmade beds, but there must be others
I don’t yet know. Clean and bright,
with the blankets folded at the foot of the bed,
windows open and the scent of lemon blossoms.
Or so I imagine. They are accessible
by breaking a seal that’s kept them pristine.
I can hear the rush of air when I open them.
There may be found the reframing
of all I’ve labored with this long life.
Not that, but this, they say. Which could mean,
my beloved, that I love you more
now that my fear is gone. And you, my friend
are no longer painted with my version of the world,
but as you are. Life fresh as childhood eyes,
now that the clouds are thickening toward the end.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson