This morning I was standing in the kitchen when something made me turn just as the sun lit the mandarins on the table. The quality of light, the brightness of the color orange and the sleeping old dog felt so warm and right, and hopeful, you know? If I were a poet this would be a poem. Maybe I am, and maybe it is.
Yesterday morning I listened to “On Being” on KHNS and my poet friend Naomi Shihab Nye said that every day is a poem, and once you realize that, life takes on new meaning. My idea for the poem that was yesterday morning begins like this:
I was making coffee and saw a hen walking back and forth in the run. (Our coop has this little chicken door that we close each night to keep the weasels out.) I asked my husband if he’d already opened the hen hatch— No, he said. That meant she had spent the night out all alone in the cold and dark. I pulled on boots and a coat over my pajamas and ran out and opened the door for her. I know, that’s not a poem, but this is:
Before she could dart in for food and water and warmth, all the hens and both roosters bolted out to greet her, flapping, clucking and crowing. We missed you. We were worried. We are so happy you are home.
I know that one found poem a day should be plenty– but everywhere I look there’s a new one. Spring skiing on thick snow next to the gentle river with a light breeze at your back and warm sun on your face is poetry. (So too is being grateful for Jim and Travis who have been setting this long winding track all winter.) Also, we saw Ellen skiing towards us and stopped to say hello, and she was smiling and said, “This is unbelievable. It’s world class, and here I am all alone out in it, except for when I see someone, and I know them. What’s not to love?”
Can you find the title of this homecoming poem?
And this one is called, “Skittles rainbow surprise with marshmallow clouds.”
