I find these last years rich and full
With things quite unremarkable;
With water towers such as this
At sunset on a day sans bliss —
But every day some mundane thing
Seems an extravagance to me,
For I am oddly rich with dreams,
And drunk on possibility —
Imagination’s wonderful,
The possibles are palpable;
Though some might think it falderal,
And all this,
Unremarkable
I often think to myself, “I didn’t realize I was thinking that, until Owen said so.” That’s the sign of a real poet, Owen.
Wow. That’s an incredible compliment, thank you.
Just keep palpating those possibles, Owen. I wasn’t thinking this. Your words sparked my imagination. Another sign of a real poet.
I love palpating as a verb. Now you’ve inspired me. Thanks.
If you grow up in a small town, you learn to appreciate the unremarkable. I know exactly of what you speak…then and now, sixty years later! Nice poem. http://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/08/17/step-by-step/
Thanks, Judy.