One of the problems with having the brain fix on a direction is that I can’t shift it. I like parts of this but I don’t know about the whole. A different structure perhaps, but I will have to wait until my head feels less cotton-y. Colds are the devil.
Evening Out Her Window
Each evening when she pulls the curtains
shut, in her bedroom facing South, she stops
a moment. The scene she sees is never
exactly the same, as if each day someone
picks up this giant snow globe of a world
and turns it down, up, down, up. Flakes
vibrate, sift, resettle and she pauses to look
out the window. Gold and green bulbs
trace the skyline of mid-town Atlanta.
The fluorescent white of a new moon cuts
a sliver in the cobalt contrast of the late
evening sky, the blue deep as if from
an artist’s fresh grind, the night clear
and newly painted. Near the horizon, a dot
tips a wink at the cosmos — Venus laughing
as she says, C’mon, take a chance, hook
a star. Above her, Jupiter aligns his neon
bulk, as the heavens reflect a blueprint
of light emerging from eons past.
The inspiration, as it is every Sunday, is Brenda’s The Sunday Whirl. This week she tells us, the words come from her daughter’s Teen Vogue magazine.
Happy writing, all.