What You Find in the Mud
Poetry is what you find in the mud
in the corner, overhear on the bus,
a woman scratching her ankle, her
breath heaving from walking uphill.
It lives in the glint of a knife, gleaming
against the skin of a pear, how it
trembles before being peeled, the
peel curling toward the hand’s heat.
There’s a man shouting at pigeons,
his face red with all the rage of
a life misunderstood. He stops when
he sees me, eyes wide like forgiveness.
Poetry is the flutter of an eyelid, the
brittle gasp of winter breath through
a wool scarf, the way shadows throb
against a lit window—aching to be known.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 6th, 2024 05:10
- Comment from author about the poem: My highschool Prom
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
Offline)
Comments1
Perhaps, yet I think it is more visible in the hands of sweet motions, like my father's crafting espressos or my mother's teaching my younger siblings, like the baby fingers picking flowers for mama, and the like. Excellently rendered with lovely details and a subtly haunting poignancy. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for sharing your feedback , I appreciate your kind words
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