Stream of Consciousness
Twenty-Five
I worried that Twenty-five might come with questions, in a loud interrogative voice the usual racket of my heart's upstairs neighbor: why don't you know just who you are, and why you've been dropped just here? Why haven't you done so very much more, and helped everyone else to, too? But I find that Twenty-five comes to me quietly with morning mugginess by the Delaware shore, and seabirds skating high above a quick call with my brother, across 13 hours difference and the width of the Pacific. I worried that Twenty-five might arrive with accusation's weight but Twenty-five comes to me lightly With only the unwrapped gift and unfinished task of presence. Yes, Twenty-five comes to me quietly and sits in the dew-soaked chair beside and we just exist at this point in time with the trees and the grass and the bugs and the birds.
By Gabriel Huizenga2 months ago in Poets
