(currently untitled)

I didn’t mean to let go,
Summer. But it happened–
and now your leaves are gold.




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Note: The following rather stream-of-consciousness blog was meant to precede the poem, but, as I think you will see was the wise conclusion, I decided to commence with the poem.

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While laying in the grass just now, I alternated between napping and enjoying the Indian Summer (as well as the fact that I had the day off to do so). We’ll be honest and admit napping took precedence, but the sun and contemplation was nice too.

Just as I was preparing to again drift away, a poem – or the beginnings of one – came to me. It always fascinates me when that happens: I wander through some mundane aspect of life, disassociatedly contemplating the activity or something entirely unrelated, and words unexpectedly string themselves together like a trail of breadcrumbs a child inadvertently left in the woods.

At this point in the post I haven’t fully decided if I’m going to conclude with my poem. It’s not finished – in fact it is rather raw and unpolished. I cannot decide what to do with the punctuation, whether it belongs inside a longer poem, if it wants to be condensed into a haiku or American Sentence. Do I want the internet to remember this figment of a quiet Sunday afternoon? Is this to step closer to one of the paths as-yet unchosen, distinguishing this as a writing blog, a blog about writing, a place in which my writing ought to be polished and perfected and publishable and and and?

I am not afraid for you to read it.
But am I afraid of you, oh enigmatic cyber-stalking thief, who might steal this tiny gift?
“Now it comes to it, I don’t feel like parting with it. It’s mine; I found it, it came to me!”
Good heavens though. I’d like to be published, but really, if I think three lines are so brilliant as to resemble the only worthy material of my portfolio? Quite possibly I then deserve to have them ferried (or fairied?) away to the nether regions of the internet, unaccredited and disassociated.

ETA: to clarify, I do not think this poem constitutes anything resembling the best that I have written. I kept the last paragraph because I found it amusing and thought you might as well. I think the poem has potential, though it hasn’t quite achieved it yet.