BLOGPOST #22

August 16, 2020

Several things could happen here

The page is blank

when I write a poem

I have to sit at my desk 

I have to have my journal and favorite pen

or 

perhaps I am sitting in a field loose papers everywhere

My sundress barely covers my prickly legs 

as I take the images from my day

try to 

capture them into something loosely coherent

A love poem 

to a man with long hands and quite eyes

but then again 

I might be sitting at my kitchen table 

the pasta boils over as I sing into the page the memory of 

my grandmother slowly folding the black seaweed

paper around the steamed rice