For the Poets

Here’s the thing

Tea cup tendrils 

kitchen window light 

I’m not a story

Teller of ancient family secrets

Unearthed by me

Dog slumbering by the fireplace

Not going to tell you

How to live your days in bliss

Rather simply

Point this out

Or that and leave 

It at that

You know

How it goes 

The house as quiet

As a church balcony 

Saturday nights

So it goes

As the stream flows

As they say

Me: oh look

There’s a stone

To cross