A beautiful Sunday following on the heels of a blowing, chilly Saturday. Reading books about the poetic process and how other poets contemplate, construct, pick their language, I decide today to work with a feeling I have about October, but to take this feeling outside of myself and make it bigger. At the same time, making the poem more compact.
October blows into our lives
makes us believe
we have been transported—
she to a Parisian park,
he to the memory of a tree-lined street.
Maybe it’s the angle of the golden-hued light
or the smell of the dusky breeze brushing our faces
or perhaps even the tornadoes whirling
around inside our ribs.