A Life of Wonder

I thought about this idea, this idea that if I wrote one poem a day for the rest of my life I could cover a room with them, I could string these poems of mine on clothes lines and throw them in the air letting them fall like leaves in autumn, if I wrote one poem a day, just one, there would be space for me to discovery something fresh, something I did not know and could never find in a book, in an experience.

the violin, i cannot claim to understand how to play, and I do not know the instrument as well as you must. I do know it makes me feel, I do know that when I hear it I see scenes and not images.

i know these people that are no longer living, some are alive and not a part of my life, and some are not alive. Their words still in the music I hear in speech, their words very much a part of mine. In no order I introduce you to these words. They are “generosity” or more specifically “generosity of flesh, of spirit,” they are, this phrase “if it’s the good lords will and the creeks don’t rise,” they are, they are words I cannot share with you because I hold them too close to me.

I thought if I wrote a poem a day for you, that you and i, together, could place them high like piles of leaves you see, and jump into them slide our arms like angels of the fall, sliding our arms like light through a stained glass window, I thought I’d write a poem a day for us, and so it goes.