I think I recognize you now, poet,
Sitting there amidst quotidian things;
A jar, a dish, a coffee cup with one
Crimson smear. I see that faraway
Look in eyes staring out, viewing also
The hinterland beyond. I hear the sigh
Of one tasting the honeyed bitterness
Of history, and hearing whispered words
From phantom children in abandoned rooms.
I watch the hand of you, cartographer,
Mapping out diligently the fault lines
Of emotion and thought; without recoil
Meticulously cataloguing all
Fractures between observer and observed.
I think I recognize you now, poet;
The possessor of a heart that rises up
Touching the wonder in the everyday;
That yet can find the joy of simple things
Despite repeated falls of toxic rain
Filling the pools of memory. I see
Penelope gazing through the window
Of an empty house to the sea outside
Yet sensing that larger ocean within.
And so, with practical resolution
And shrugging off a profound weariness,
She soldiers on. The floor is swept, the meal
Prepared. She smiles, arranging yellow flowers
Whose petals trap flames from the fading sun.