This morning I sat at the window overlooking the lake and tried to meditate--another resolution bound for intermittent failure. In the midst of an occassional mantra breath, i would think about all the things that I needed to get done before my mid-morning appointment. I had just finished reading a William Matthew's prose poem, or what some might say a journal entry. He wanders around a room, looking out the window, telling us about all the busyness he sees outside and how he feels a special kind of rest in the bland, quietness of the room. He questions that need for solitude in many of these entries, or poems, but is alway "called back to the restlessness of days present." A restless soul, an inspiring poet!
Today's small poem with William Matthew's poetry in mind.
Winter
The day's flatness startles and tears up
the mind's solitary conversation.
It's color is white with washed blue-gray
brushed up against the leafless silhouettes.
Alll movement gone in one held breath,
the bright eye removed from the storm.
In high winds of other days there are
decisions to be made, action in the fearfull
beating at the window, but here in arctic
stillness there is no drama in which to hide.
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