the act of sitting and putting pen to paper

I sit thick
and muddled
and not at all winsome and light
like I wanted to be when I woke this morning.
Sitting in the warm beam
of a cold sun,
I put pen to paper
and poetry sprouts-
not prose as I wished for-
but a lithe tendril
spools from the end of the pen,
twirling quietly and slowly,
until a small leaf unfurls,
and green.

13 thoughts on “the act of sitting and putting pen to paper

  1. Thanks for responding like that, Kathleen. I see the scene clearly: a winter sun, its pale beam providing just enough warmth for a person’s comfort, and (vitally) enough for sees of poetry to germinate.
    It’s a lovely poem.

  2. Like others, I greatly enjoyed this and have read it several times. It really takes off with that image of the poem spooling tendrils from your pen.
    (Tiny query: a warm beam from a cold sun? Not important).

    • Thank you, John. I always appreciate your thoughtful reading of my poetry.
      I know that line still needs some work. It was an attempt to bring the reader to my table where I write- an icy January morning, bright with sun, its light streaming through the window, casting a warm beam where I sit at my table, pen in hand. πŸ™‚

  3. Awesome poem Kathleen! πŸ˜ŠπŸ’• I could feel the muted warm of a cold sun shining through my window as my spiritual vision conjured images of a tiny little branch twisting out from the pen onto the paper and sprouting leaves as it grew and soon filled the paper with leaves and flowers. You are a Jedi Poet Master….. and I am the student😊

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