(as grandson napped)
He lay back, hands
behind his head,
certain of so much
in this unguarded moment.
He and the dog,
similarly assured and
comfortable with
their lots in life.
A winter afternoon
thru sheer curtains–
an illuminated poet
with pet, his socks
white as the truth
of the dog’s fur.
The lamp behind his head
was not needed with
this much light, this much
momentousness of being.
Elsewhere on his red shirt,
Cookie gobbled
chocolate chips
and spoke of a world
of action and desire–
the maddening nature
of consumption,
satiety and chaos,
and what it was like
to be ‘let loose’ and be
free, uncontrolled.
In the end, there were
just moments and choices–
some simpler than others–
of peace and contentment
with one’s own-life and
the slow afternoon
drift of all things.
…………………………
“The poet does not think of himself as making his poems. He thinks of himself as a place where poems happen.”–Northrop Frye, “Reconsidering Levels of Meaning”