When Poetry Waits By The Stove

There are days when poetry feels like a friend waiting patiently at the edge of my busy kitchen. The scent of garlic, the sound of a child calling, the hum of laundry. Some become unwritten poetry and the rest is history. I used to think that poets were those who had endless time to sit by the window, staring at the moonlight until words appeared. Now, I realize poetry doesn’t only come to the still . It also comes to the moving. It slips between grocery lists, softens the edges of exhaustion, hides in the laughter of family. But sometimes I envy those who can sit and think and write the line as soon as it arrives, rather than carry it in memory until it fades. Perhaps the true art of poetry is not in the sitting, but in the living and in noticing the fleeting beauty that passes through an ordinary day, and trusting that it will return when we are finally quiet enough to listen. But I wish i could be like those poets who can freely sit and write whenever they wish without interruption. It's a kind of luxury not all poets can afford. Dear Soupers what do you do when your heart begins to scribble but your hands are still tied up? I care to know. ^____^