FROM A ROOM

 

i have held photos and heard rumors
of the mud hills of montana,
the fire falls of yellowstone,
and the patient rain of seattle.
a decade has passed by now, and i am here,
waiting in a room, writing poems
about far away places.

with time, the room changes from a living room
to a coffee shop to a doctor’s vestibule,
but my hand remains constant on the pen.
my pen digging deeper into pulp,
into paper harvested from the wild,
i wait for nature to claim its own,
for life to lead me to new life.