My Life

Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world
 
or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,
 
but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder
 
if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.
 
Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,
 
or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.
 
Like yours, it could be anything, a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms–
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes
or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.
 
But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,
 
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my  life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene
 
stirring everything it touches–
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.
 
~~ Billy Collins ~~
 

2 responses to “My Life

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s