Poetry by Cynthia Pitman
I sit at the table, elbow up,
propping my chin in my hand
in front of my laptop.
My impatient accomplice whirs and whirs,
trying to stir me back to work.
But I won’t go.
Instead, I lean into my daydreams.
I gaze outside.
So many layers separate me from the world.
The soft-pink rose-lace curtains
that I long-ago chose
to mimic my grandmother’s house
hang light, overlaying a window
with fifteen panes —
all of the panes etched with roses
sunlight-sifted through the curtains.
Beyond is the shade from the trees,
light and dark gray on the asphalt roadway.
Someone must have come along
and spilled white paint on the shade,
for here and there blots of white mottle it.
They move with the wind.
The grass lies green,
either lime-green or forest green,
its color decided by the shade.
Below the grass lies the dirt.
Were I to dig,
it would be warm and tight at the top.
But if I were to dig deep,
it would become cold and loose.
Clumps of rich dirt would cling to my hands.
I return to my laptop.
I dig deep.
I dirty my hands
with fresh fertile words.
About the Poet
Cynthia Pitman began writing poetry again this past spring after a 30-year hiatus. She has recently had poetry published in Vita Brevis, Right Hand Pointing, Ekphrastic Review,Literary Yard,Amethyst Review, Postcard Poems and Prose, and Leaves of Ink. She has fiction forthcoming in Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art.