This is the first winter that didn't end with the trill
of my mother whistling to her cardinal from the garden
as she massages life back into the knotted soil;
like a fish sprung from a plastic pail, this one only flapped
on the pavement awhile and then died, bruised and broken.
In quiet moments, the talon of mortality taps me
on the shoulder and I startle, recognizing the seasons
as the pins on a music box cylinder: truth, bitter as
licking the envelope of a suicide note. We reject
spring and fall as a shifting lever; they are threads
wattled into the fabric of memory.
My new conceptualization of God:
an omnipotent octopus at a loom,
weaving marionette strings.
I'll stow these thoughts away now
and surrender myself to the comfort of watching
the vastness of the immense night sky, bound
within the tiny frame of an airplane window:
clouds one way, stars another.
This poem was written in response to NaPoWriMo Poetry Prompt #9: your mission on Read Write Poem
What do you think is the best balance between looking at the "big picture" and living in the present?