Tonight, my mind is blank as the page.
Through my window the ceaseless wind hushes me.
Our trash bins topple, my thoughts are so light.
Writing still calls to me here,
but as a vague and formless urge
accompanied by a dull numbness
with no purpose.
You see,
today I read a journal of poetry
I kept in high school.
The poetry was long and formless
and self-indulgent, even when
it pretended not to be.
If he was to be believed,
the poet endured a thousand and one heartaches,
a hundred Poe-inspired nightmares,
and moments described as madness –
more likely self-imposed loneliness.
But when he ventured to the gray winter wilderness,
he marveled at the rooted giants of his forest cathedral,
consecrated the sight of a cardinal,
penned poetry seated in the shelter of a pine,
and drank from a frozen stream,
and though his fingers went numb from the cold,
he bemoaned leaving as darkness descended.
Beside myself, I thought, What more can be said?
That sulking boy was self-absorbed, but sensate and alive,
and this world-weary man is half dead.
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