My Day As Poetry

This morning, I awoke with an interesting thought: What if I were to make every day a poem? What kind of poem would today be? I didn’t mean that I would write verses about the day but would create a lovely day that produced thought and insight as if Mary Oliver herself had created it. This raised the question though, would my intentions dictate the poem, or would the muses decide what happens and create magical poetic moments? It was a worthy experiment, so I lay there contemplating this perplexing issue, dozing in and out until I had overslept, late for walking my puppy and with my cat howling for his breakfast.  So far, today’s poem was about being late and rushing, not very lovely or poetic. 

Or, my poem might be about yielding to the experience. While getting dressed, instead of asking Siri to shuffle my favorite music as usual, I requested she play A Horse with No Name out of the blue as I was throwing on a sweater and jeans to take my dog out. It must have arisen from my subconscious, since I rarely listen to this song, but as it played, I related to wandering in the desert, figuring it out, since there are times when I certainly feel that way, so I added this to my Favorites playlist. Siri complied and when the song was over, she threw out some unsolicited songs from my past that I’d loved from Chicago, Steely Dan, and Fleetwood Mac. I added these to my Favorites as well. So far, this moment of not being in charge was going well.

But by dinner time, I decided that I’d failed at creating a poetic day. Clearly, the events of my day weren’t entirely in my control. I considered that perhaps the moments where the spontaneous becomes memorable, the memorable becomes inspiration, and that is the muse of poetry. Although I hadn’t figured out how to make a rushed trip to the grocery store or doing laundry poetic, There was certainly a mid-morning, magical walk in the woods with my puppy where the leaves were every shade of cinnamon and rust. The sun streamed between the branches, and I inhaled the musty smell of dried leaves, as they twirled gracefully from the trees and crunched under my footsteps. Four swans were gliding across the twinkling pond, too far away to get a decent photo with my phone. I stood on a rock as close to the water as possible and watched as they swam in formation towards me, backlit so that the sun emphasized the curve of their backs. And voila. Poetry.