Labor day afternoon. I sit here knowing I should write you a profound poem since I preach so often I’m one of those Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost enthusiasts. I’m quite curious as to what some of you think of my work. More often than not reactions include echoes of wows and questions as to whom I’m writing about. I realize I’m writing you prose nonsense right now, so I better get to the poetry and save the rest for another day.
Here I sit, looking out my sister’s window where
a valley awaits, calmly breathing in the sun’s rays,
whispering gossip from the night before, and kissing those whose
day displays a grave or cell or star-crossed lover.
Hidden beneath shades of yellow and green
a small house desires to peak
from its shady interior.
It tells me stories about old lovers and their filthy, intriguing romances begging
to escape this traditional life.
The valley hears all and as the wind blows the soft branches side to side
the house has its chance,
reaching high enough to see but to not fall.
Suddenly, I stand up from my chair
knowing why the house no longer cares.
A city lives beneath the dear valley.
So much for vanity fair.