I started this with the line about the wheat stalk. I don’t know why, but I went with it anyway…
Of a wheat stalk, climbed and broken,
comes the straw similarly bent and bruised.
Of pages set in galleys seventy-one years ago,
words pressed from ink absorb light, that I may read.
Of this stormy Monday, cast in sun and chill,
the irritants fly in all directions, some of them previously undiscovered.
Of this clatter, stabbing and eager to bite,
I am impatient, unwilling to temper my disgust.
Of too many, I find not enough,
and catch myself wondering where I can get more.
Of the thoughts unwilling to alight long enough to consider,
the louder they yell, the less I’m inclined to pay attention.
Of the words I commit to this page, of all the things I could have said,
these strike me as the most ridiculous, the least worth repeating.
Of that, at least, I am certain.
(30 October 2017)