A love poem for the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. Started out with the winter solstice. Ended up in the bedroom. Ooops!
Even the solstice is a trick, using its promise of light as a Trojan horse to sneak in winter. My own belly is full of potatoes. In quarantine, I’ve been perfecting home fries and counting blessings.
I don’t usually write satirical poems, but VP Pence’s unwillingness to have lunch alone with a woman who is not his wife called for it. It’s hard not to lampoon this administration.
Here / trying to enact what they mean when they say Let’s cross over. / If I write about the butterfly you’ll think I want to be one But who are you
Who am I in all this / to feel love so abundant? This morning, a tree / on my lawn catches the sun. It sits in bare branches / like a bright ball of yarn I want to keep in a basket / even though I can make nothing of it.
This poem (draft) is quite a bit more gentle — and certainly more sentimental — than is normal for me. Today, apparently, the muse has a fondness for camping.
Apparently, I’m obsessed with the grocery store (I wrote about it last time, too). I am as surprised as you are. I actually hate stores in real life. I avoid them ’til they’re absolutely necessary.