My new poems podcast, Words by Winter, can be found here.
You’re being pulled, but from what and toward what? Everything is in transition. What has your life meant, and what will it mean?
Words from my journal earlier this morning. Questions without answers, written by me to a woman who appeared this morning as I carried my cup of coffee to the small room we call the Fireplace Room because, yup, there’s a fireplace in it. I looked to my left and there she was, in sweats and a pink sweatshirt. The woman looked somewhat familiar but she was not smiling, and her eyes were so serious.
Then I realized she was me, reflected in the mirror on the back of a door that’s been hidden for years by a big bookshelf that I moved yesterday because the door needed painting. There’s a room beyond that door, and another room beyond that door, and I thought of this poem.
from The Door, by Charles Tomlinson
has been said
of the door, its one
face turned to the night’s
downpour and its other
to the shift and glisten of firelight.
For more information about Charles Tomlinson, please click here.