thresholds

a brace of camellia buds,
pale gold and swollen,
nod knowingly in the rain

March puddles may come,
but the thrush still shouts
when he’s discovered his mate

April is at the threshold
and soon a parish of sparrows
will be singing themselves silly
in the branches of the wild plum

© Sarah Whiteley

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found poem

yesterday’s fortune
left the fragment of a poem
lying in the January drizzle
for me to perceive
and carry (treasured) home

some squirrel, winter hungry
no doubt, had dug it up
and nibbled most of the roots
away to nubs – but still,
green pushes through
the almost ruin

it sits now on my sill
in a balance of stone and water
and quiet winter light, while I
and my curiosity await
the unknown bloom

© Sarah Whiteley

While walking in the rain yesterday, I did stumble across a little bulb on the sidewalk with most of its roots nibbled off, but some healthy green just beginning to show. I decided to take it home with me and see if I could get it to bloom. It struck me almost immediately how much finding this little bit of life was like writing a poem – stumbling over a fragment that slowly sprouts, never knowing exactly what it will be when it finally decides to bloom. I’m actually very excited now to see what blooms on my window sill in a few weeks – love this little gift from the universe!

Monday morning, 6 AM

the geese came early
this morning, and loudly

already it was too gray a day
for the sun to make an appearance

the dogs, fractious still from being
pulled out into the dark and rain

growled up at the windows long after
the clattery troupe had passed

and moments later the rain
let loose and I with my umbrella

crept out the back door
into another day

© Sarah Whiteley

the morning commute

this morning the rain had let up
just long enough during the night
that I was able to make my way down the walk
without worrying how deep the next puddle
too wide to leap would be
half a block ahead of me walked a man
whose dark jacket folded him into the gloom
but I could smell the heavenly clove
of his cigarette and inhaling deeply
thought it’s a damn good thing I keep mine
in the drawer at home safe from fingers
itching to light just one, which would turn
into possibly three, a missed bus and a wrong
perhaps deliberate turn down the wrong street
for a long pause in a certain small cafe
where the purple walls would hide me
from the workaday and I could settle to the task
of drinking a few too many cups of coffee
and everyone else can turn the world without me
but the man headed left down the alley
and my cloves were tucked in the drawer
six blocks back and there I was
with a for once on-time bus thinking
I may as well get on

© Sarah Whiteley

Things will be on the quiet side here for a while. Not a hiatus, really, but just working on a very exciting project. I’ll be keeping up with reading new posts, but the writing might be a bit on the thin side over here. But trust me – it’ll be worth it.

Cheers!

old friend

tonight I and the quiet
make a companion of the rain
whose soft staccato taps
at the window as if
asking to be let in
this – the first silence
in weeks – is as welcome
now as any old friend
or comfortable shoe
we fit, you see, without
straining and fill
without words (without
asking) the nooks
and bends of the other
’til I am quiet and quiet
is me and all is right
with the rain coming in
on the sill

© Sarah Whiteley