Poem #6

Eleven Ways Of Looking At Me

I used to imitate

I used to fear

I used to bend in body and spirit

I don’t do any of those now

Not anymore

 Staring at the ceiling in the dark

Cringing at the sound of the woodpecker

Tapping out a midnight rhythm

Keeping me away from sleep

Simple music on the piano

They say practice makes perfect

But they don’t say how much

I imagine seven hundred wonders of the world

Or seven hundred thousand

Do you?

Why does the sun rise every morning?

Surely it would stop

The world would not go on

If one day I woke up

With salt on my face

Clouds in the sky waver

Pouring water into the lake

Ripples on its mirrored surface

I am afraid to make ripples on the pond

But I do

When no one is looking

Indecision

And inconsistency

Two blotches on my unfinished page

 Do the others see every day as a painting?

Do they know that somewhere, right now, someone is happy?

 There is a golden box deep inside of me

Someday it will open

And I will know myself

 Am I better off now?

I can’t erase anything I’ve done

Can I?

Will it be different at the end?

Is there still time to be forgiven?