I gave up much of today to cleaning, mostly the car and the exterior paintwork. When I was brushing the cobwebs away from the door and window frames, I encountered several dead moths hanging limply among them. It struck me that there is something poignant about a dead moth hanging limply in a cobweb, and I thought that if I were a poet I would write a poem about it. But I'm not, so I didn't.
It did please me, though, that one moth was still alive and fluttered away at speed when it was released. Maybe it shouldn't have pleased me; maybe I should have felt sympathy for the spider.
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4 comments:
Your feelings were right about the lovely moth because you felt them. You are a poet, Jeff. (this is right because this is my feeling) (I am smiling at you!)
So what you're saying is that being a poet is an inner quality rather than having the ability to pick the right words? That's a nice thought, Shay, but how much better if you can do both. I know we're on a wavelength, which was why I said you speak my language better.
Yes, Jeff, you're a gypsy poet within ! but not just that, you may not write 'poetry', but the manner in which you express yourself in words often times is indeed most poetic/proseful ... wavelengths, yes ... and again, merci.
Smiling back.
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