Publisher’s Note: Today’s piece is a guest post from who writes , the life and letters of a Midwest Housewife.
Where You Look
I heard that Truth rides round on whispers Tumbles out of mountain streams All coldness and motion The coming and going of a notion Or it smacks you while you’re standing still Or taking the wobbly route of falling leaves Breezing by in caves and brooks Understood in glances, looks. It cannot be in thunderous maelstroms Whipping wind and gray noise The ground shifting under foot The fog of ideas, ash and soot We know this Contemplation: Silence Decreed by Holy books and Poets. Iambic, a heartbeat teachers push, Muses of Flow, librarians shush. But always there’s some scuttlebutt Some cacophonous distraction, for example, The ladies talk of nail polish that glistens - The Poet in me listens.
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