Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Little Things

To step over the south-facing threshold of this darkening house and out
into the surprising almost light, the winter smell of cold and diesel,

to turn one way, west, toward a silhouette of shoes,
laces tied together,
flung over a wire
beside so perfectly unstraight a stroke
of pulsing black, a pole,

then nine strides north to where
those two horses made of grass and wind
draw changing angles to the ground,
whose soft noses break

my green heart, oh what it is.

I had merely thought to smoke.

Why would I call these things little
when they live me
as the life I do not have,
as large as this only moment.


  1. Polli, your poem takes me in, gently pulls me into another world where I hope to encounter you.

    Thank you for this.

  2. Thank you, Claire :) I've tried to comment on you blog a couple of times recently, but my comments keep disappearing when I click to submit them.



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