the quiet mutters underneath breath reveal life, revel life, too, i can almost imagine,
ha-ha, if this is a poem i am my mother's mother
but still it comes through and we put it out and then there are several other ones who think
well, that can certainly be it, i suppose, if she needs it to be,
i mean, it's an act of imagination, you'd say, but then again,
many fruits are low-hanging doesn't mean you need to pick them all
after all
in sleep you mutter quiet words under your breath i can never catch only guess
at names and places you revisit but never speak of when awake
where they're lost, not recalled
sometimes i cannot find you in your sleep, too far away i have acquiesced to your secret-keeping
although i regret it
and regress
to find you leaning in the armchair you love so much, asking
can we write love-letters to ourselves? or -poems for that matter. considering the other person, imagining they would write it for us, to us
as an act of empathy? for ourselves
a sip of tea, you look down. there are books in piles around your feet, they come up to your calves although the chair you sit in is high
granddad's arm chair, lion's feet for legs
several of them are dusty, whoops they are gone, and time has moved forward so quickly, you are much older now!
there are letters and words at your feet, piled on high, cluttering about your ankles, but we don't know what they are
now
i recline in the couch and look up at the sky
imagining being the person who loves you seems a terribly lonely thing
ha-ha, if this is a poem i am my mother's mother
but still it comes through and we put it out and then there are several other ones who think
well, that can certainly be it, i suppose, if she needs it to be,
i mean, it's an act of imagination, you'd say, but then again,
many fruits are low-hanging doesn't mean you need to pick them all
after all
in sleep you mutter quiet words under your breath i can never catch only guess
at names and places you revisit but never speak of when awake
where they're lost, not recalled
sometimes i cannot find you in your sleep, too far away i have acquiesced to your secret-keeping
although i regret it
and regress
to find you leaning in the armchair you love so much, asking
can we write love-letters to ourselves? or -poems for that matter. considering the other person, imagining they would write it for us, to us
as an act of empathy? for ourselves
a sip of tea, you look down. there are books in piles around your feet, they come up to your calves although the chair you sit in is high
granddad's arm chair, lion's feet for legs
several of them are dusty, whoops they are gone, and time has moved forward so quickly, you are much older now!
there are letters and words at your feet, piled on high, cluttering about your ankles, but we don't know what they are
now
i recline in the couch and look up at the sky
imagining being the person who loves you seems a terribly lonely thing