Reading poetry, accompanied
By spinning water, tumbling heat,
Steel girt carriages, metal birds,
And the cat's incessant meow;
Thoughts race by, clamoring for attention,
Birthing annoyance,
Snapping my temper in two.Daily mundane activity will not pause
To give me respite,
But taunts me with its necessity.
I give in and bellow at the disturbance,
But cannot stop its mockery of solitude,
Its unconcern for my frustration.
I close the book, lay aside my pipe,
And put my hand to some everyday task.
And I reflect...
Life itself is poetry. |
|
