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by Johanna May

Because I waited everyday,
I missed it. Listened keenly
at each random second,
like an inspector
sampling a few
before the purge.

Remember when each day
was worth a pebble,
from a walk,
or a flower between
a book?

Hours, days, a week,
leaves without ceremony.
Waiting for a faultless peace.
A sudden adagio,
like a second your six years old
son’s eyes are the same he’ll don
at forty.

Hours, days, a week.
You realize the noise is the music.


Posted on 08/05/2020
Copyright © 2021 Johanna May

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Rob Littler on 09/02/20 at 11:12 AM

I feel a brilliant solitude in this, watching my own children measure the worth of a day in rare stones found in the river, and I am struck by the movement of an image to memory and ultimately to metaphor... your write reminds me we are what we do... but was I what I did? Will I forever be bound to my action... and inaction?

Posted by Richard Vince on 09/09/20 at 09:04 PM

reminds me of a quote (i can't remember who said it but it may have been someone else on here): "it's hard to see the whole picture when you're stuck inside the frame". i shudder to think of all the things i missed while waiting for them when they were already happening. you've encapsulated that phenomenon perfectly. :)

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