Perfectly Proportioned


It’s empty now.
Empty of the thimble that belonged to Mom
and the fragile figurine. Gone is the
tiny pot with matching tea cups,
spattered in blue paint. And the
mini toilet seat with lifting lid.

Even the infant starfish
that accidentally tagged along
in our dive bag is somewhere’s else.
So many treasures,
gone missing or
set aside for later days.

It’s empty now.
As it has been for some time,
gathering dust and watching:
three children grow bold and strong,
several pairs of pups
playing and loving their ways into
hearts that will never be without them.
A father learn to lead without compelling
and a mother learn to follow without resisting.

It’s empty now.
And yet…

Each opening is perfectly sized:
More e’s than q’s,
more s’s than w’s,
but r’s and h’s, nearly the same.
The printer knows,
What runs low he replaces, because
What is receive without e’s?
What is suppose without s’s?

And I?


I am perfectly proportioned
for the letters meant
for the words I’m to share
in the notes, cards, and messages,
in the conversations and calls,
in the texts and emails.
Yes, even the poems, posts, and prose
are already supplied,
as are the comments, both
spoken and unspoken.
A work in progress, that listening.

“I’m not empty!” says the printer’s tray,
sounding a bit offended.
“I’m perfectly proportioned – to the very last letter –
to hold the words you will convey
with your life.”

About wlebolt

Life comes at you fast. I like to catch it and toss it back. Or toss it up to see where it lands. I do my best thinking when I'm moving. And my best writing when I am tapping my foot to a beat no one else hears. Kinesthetic to the core.

Posted on November 6, 2015, in Body, Deeper Sensation, God, Instinct, love, poetry, Spirit, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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