There is great meaning in seemingly tiny moments, and they often stay with me longer than grand gestures and events. Sometimes I find time slowing down enough for me to commit a moment to memory. Other times, quiet minutes provide waking reflections of time that passed earlier. The small vignettes in "weekdays" offer a progression of moments that added up to something more. They are real, unaltered moments, and metaphors at the same time.
excerpt from "weekdays." photo from morgueFile by alvimann
weekdays
often.
semi-cold frisbee
with a dog who won’t fetch,
but chase for the chance to run,
and a man who still throws
knowing he’ll have to get it sometimes.
then.
blankets over tile and broken glass
warm the night air, and melt
first words into
rooftop confessions.
sometimes.
naked afternoon conversation
keeps the gray day and rain
jealous at the window.
now.
wool tightly woven
for once covers my ears,
collects my heat,
and warms every part
of our bodies.
©Erin Croley
often.
semi-cold frisbee
with a dog who won’t fetch,
but chase for the chance to run,
and a man who still throws
knowing he’ll have to get it sometimes.
then.
blankets over tile and broken glass
warm the night air, and melt
first words into
rooftop confessions.
sometimes.
naked afternoon conversation
keeps the gray day and rain
jealous at the window.
now.
wool tightly woven
for once covers my ears,
collects my heat,
and warms every part
of our bodies.
©Erin Croley
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