poem

Whitman was right

I want to be a child

living on the couch all day

life in front of the fireplace

dreaming

dreaming of fame but also dreaming

of light and fictional lands

of becoming another person

in another century

the clean sun spots on wintry fields outside my doorstep

branches swaying

I have no control over this eruption of feeling

I will write when I write

and hold silence in empty seasons

I too am paralyzed

to be myself

I stopped writing poetry for a whole year

you can't explain the muse

I tried to control my hand

but my hand rebelled

winter is a sabre

from the root a river flows

cutting the morning with these lazy thoughts

grown into little children

sad wayfarers

the open rose

winter lavish in cold innocence

CRA 1/1/09

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