Becoming
There are days
when I don't look
for much, just an old chair
on the back porch,
a few thoughts
to pick over, perhaps
a memory to recall and,
to entertain the eye,
splotches of sunlight
to dance around
a cup of coffee
cooling on a table.
Life distilled
to such a simple array
of mental bric-a-brac
set in a familiar scene.
Cezanne knew it
in a bowl of fruit.
And yet how clear
the moment, how
this bright beam
of consciousness illuminates
a patch of existence
making it a lens
into a world trembling
on the brink of becoming.
I keep returning
for more.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment