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
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
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.
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.