Last weekend, during “the blizzard” of Charlotte 2010, I attended a poetry reading which featured my friends and fellow writers Anne Hicks and Richard Alan Taylor. At the close of the performance time for the featured readers there was an open mic session. Anne made me aware of this before hand, but I had been poetically dry for a while and didn’t feel like I had anything new to offer. That afternoon, before I left, the snow began to fall and I began to fantasize about quiet, snowy mornings and hunkering down with something good to read. There is a fireplace in my kitchen and when the home renovations are finished, there will be a sitting area in front of that fireplace with cozy chairs, a floor lamp and coffee table. At that time, my roof was still leaking and the possibility of snow melt finding its way into my kitchen cupboards, made the fantasy all the richer.
As of today, the new roof is complete: the house is water tight and I am excited enough about that fact to re-live that warm, wonderful feeling that growing older and more comfortable is within easy reach. Knowing how blessed I am to live in America where I can vividly picture this blissful possibility, I share the following poem that I wrote last week for open mic at Green Rice Galleries
Hot buttered toast
Crisp fried maple bacon
And a bowl of cheese grits
Taken with tea,
The morning medications,
And the paper
The joy of quiet simplicity
The click of the heater turning on
To squeeze out the damp winter morning
Elicits a sigh over the kitchen table
The crinkled newsprint pages turning…
It is peaceful
This is middle age.