There are pretty words which capture intense feeling exquisitely,
and then there’s poetry.
I suppose that I am a child of the seventies, still believing that my words are worth writing down and calling poetry.
They make sense in my head. They make sense when I hear them aloud in my head. The pretty words give voice to pieces of my heart that I can’t show otherwise and I thought that was poetry but perhaps it is just journaling. In public. Hmmm. If I threw in some random line breaks, that wouldn’t help either.
It’s true. I am someone’s great aunt. And great aunts who write poetry are definitely a thing. And the poetry of great aunts is cringe worthy (and out of sync with the world, but that’s all right). Fact: my great-niblings are truly delightful people whom I am glad to know and whom I am glad to count as mine.
Conclusion: it is a privilege to write great-aunt-poetry and to put the pretty words in an order that pleases me and shows a little of my heart.
I wakened in the middle of the night when the world was simply grey and black. The good news is that I slept again, the less good news is that I did not sleep for long. The world is now grey and green and goldenrod.
They come to visit like long parted besties Cousins to the reunion To Granny’s birthday long after she has become Great-Granny and Great-Great Granny and Ever-So-Great Granny and has ceased to be embodied as a single woman still they come, cousins to the reunion, her embodiment now.
Not where I thought I was going with this. Hmm. Time to listen to some stories.
I came out in the dark and in starlight to listen and to make the words go and now the world is revealing itself to eyes and there might be texture of grass or tree or stone but most of all, slowly revealed, are two dark, alert guardians watching with Mamaidh.