My Unread Poetry

A wooden floor, unswept in years.
Shelves thick with dust.
A rocking chair near a cold fireplace.
An old me.

Outside the log cabin structure

is the emerald green, tawny brown
architecture of a summered forest.
Downhill due east, hear the waves
lift atop its mother sea.

When you're convinced that beauty

and soul have fallen in love,
return to the rocking chair
and look near my feet.

There you'll find, in this quiet place

not far from the sea, beautiful poetry
written by me. I say the poetry on
the floor was written by me.

Go ahead, read it. I won't be disturbed.

Water from the tap is pale yellow.

Yellow flowers in the windowsill.
Scent of pine is sublime
with time will cover my odor.

So nice.

And everything here is peaceful, serene,

where beauty abounds at a cabin
not far from the sea:

And it's all there, in the poetry

scattered around my feet.
I say it's all there in the poetry
scattered around my (cold) feet.


(From the book Kairos)