I knock on this old red barn wood table
and look around.
I hear the cuckoo clock
on the wall
next to the faux Blue Boy portrait
not quite to the beat
of Andy McKee piping in
through my speakers.
I smell spring
as it washes in
through open windows
warmly welcomed
after a long, cruel
Chicago winter.
This physical world
each element of which provides
a unique entry point
for a poem to swoop in
grab me by the neck
and take me somewhere…
else.
Each thing
every sensation
like a tiny portal
where the bounded materiality
of a thing
can send me falling
down a chute
into a place as wide
as eternity itself
where I’ll meet you.
—
Previously published on Medium.com.
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Photo credit: istockphoto.com