Sunday, September 11, 2011

Sunday, September 11, 2011

This morning I woke
to my daughter crawling into bed
with me, to new sunlight
warming the walls.

I woke slowly, made coffee, set
a bowl of bread dough
in the window to rise.

As the day warmed I hung
clean laundry on the line
to absorb the day, the air

finally clear of smoke after a week
of wildfire. I watched my children

build castles in the sandbox, study
the moving shadows of leaves
across their arms and legs.

This day.
I move slowly
through it.

Ten years ago the world
was falling apart.

I hadn't known for hours afterward;
without a television, the radio
left off that morning. I'd gone
for a run in Greenough Park,
ignored a phone call from my mom
asking if I was okay.

I walked to class in a strange quiet.
I still didn't know.

On campus, people were huddled
around TVs, watching the same
loop of footage. The buildings fell
and fell. I stood and watched, too.
What else could I have done?

In class, my poetry professor
wept. We tried to share
what we knew,
which was little.

It was a golden day; late
summer honeylight
like it is today.

Today I am sitting on my porch ,
watching my children,
trying to decide which parts
of this to carry
with me.

What I will do is this;
I will pack seven quarts of tomatoes
into jars for the winter, I will freeze
these peppers and squash.

I will teach my children peace
and kindness. I will take the time
to reflect, to heal. I will bake
the dough rising in the window.

I will remember.
I will write this poem.

3 comments:

Erin said...

Sounds like the perfect way to spend today.

kyndale_pease said...

I like every part of this poem. But especially the part about what parts you'll carry with you. I was talking with a friend today at soccer practice. She was in Washington DC on 9/11. She struggles with what to carry with her. She was deeply affected by it all. We can't hold on to everything though. Life keeps on moving and we have to move on with it...play with our children, can tomatoes, everything.
♥♥♥

6512 and growing said...

I just want you to know I was here, witnessing and appreciating the simple beauty of your poem, this day.

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