This week I offer you two pictures and one poem.
When the Children Leave Home
The children are no longer children.
They live far away.
When they leave, so soon, again,
I do the vacuuming.
I pick up the white fluffy polar bear,
take the Pat the Bunny book downstairs
where it will wait
for the sound of the car door in the driveway
in September, two months from now.
The red and green Russian nesting doll we bought in Prague
was just right for our grandson on this visit.
His brow furrowed as he pulled and pushed one balsa wood piece
after another, making the edges of each rosy-cheeked woman smooth.
He clapped when he opened the first Babushka and
when she closed again around the secret
tribe hidden in her breast.
I fold the laundry, caress the sheets, and fluff the pillows,
savoring the poem inside the prose.
What nesting dolls do you have in your life? Do you connect with this poem?
I don’t write poetry very often. Do you? What kinds of moments make you want to be a poet? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.