At the party, Chopin nocturnes in my head,
Someone snuffing-out candles of a cake,
Confident, uncasual men, decision dons
Intent on business, parley at the bowl of punch.
Needing air, I duck past cupboards in the kitchen,
Ledge over the top of the Dutch door,
Finding a summer pellicle of cottonwood
Like snow on the electric walkway bulbs.
My loafers, then my socks, grind at the gravel,
Smudge against the custard of the milkweed --
Away from the unconcern by those indoors,
Mock-identical with nature, here I'm hushed.
nice....sometimes you just need to get away from it all and nature (for me at least) is often the best place to go...nice magpie!
ReplyDeleteBrian,
ReplyDeleteThank you. We all do know 'pressure'. We all have a 'place away', my friend!
TFool
we all have been exhausted by by the social whirl and felt strangers in our own circle, i think this need for touching what's deepest is salutary, it's another way to love people, to love better. strong poem.
ReplyDeletea gentle tale,
ReplyDeletewell put.
beautiful imagery.
orfeenix,
ReplyDeleteThank you for this support! I rely on your good grace and sympathetic readings!
(Sometimes it's not even a 'whirl', this social thing, of commitment, of obligation, of intrusive ritual. Rather outside, gentle, among the speechless stones.)
Trulyfool
Jingle,
ReplyDeleteWelcome to the comments here, and thank you!
TFool
I could hear your loafers on the gravel. Nice, evocative write, Mr. T. Beautiful, in fact.
ReplyDeleteWillow,
ReplyDeleteThank you! That's high praise. (I tend to reach for images, go for the small.)
TFool