Monday poem

A present!

Good morning! Here’s an original poem for you—I thought it might be fun to practice some of the close reading techniques from yesterday on this (much less challenging) piece. Wishing you a week full of beautiful moments.

Act of Poetry

A pond is like nothing

more than it is like that brimming O

between consonantal banks

a little muddied with spring rains,

and then, a stone sits heavy on the tongue

in just the way it snugs in the hand,

and when the two meet,

there is nothing more like itself

than the hollow that opens briefly

in the water where the stone falls through,

the clearing left by the smack

of being against being, and into

that space where stone and pond

were both and are no longer

there rushes for a moment the void,

whose edges hum with energy

but whose core is a limitless lack

of friction …

then the waters close again over the gap,

about which now it can be said only

that it may indeed have been nothing

or it may have been a fissure

into everything.