Poetry Is In The Living

Finding meaning in the ordinary rhythms of life.

The more I live, the more I see that poetry isn’t separate from the mess or the mundane, it’s right there in it. In the motion of everyday life, in what we love and lose, in what we carry forward. It’s not about finding beauty everywhere; it’s about recognizing that even the hard parts belong to the story.

POETRY IS IN THE LIVING

Poetry is in the living—
in the brewed cup of coffee,
the making of breakfast each morning
for your family.

It’s in loading the dishwasher,
running that second load of laundry,
walking your child to school.

It’s the squirrel scurrying up the bluejack oak,
the chilling breeze,
the sweltering sun.

It’s weekend trips to the beach,
salt in the air, sand on your skin,
the embrace of an old friend.

It’s riding the commuter rail to work,
the smile of the elderly woman beside you,
the man on the corner
holding a cardboard sign that reads Anything Helps.

It’s in the anger
when your boss gives the promotion to Rob.
It’s in the hollow ache
of losing someone you love—
knowing you’ll never again
hear their voice,
never share another conversation.

It’s in the expelling of a last breath.
It’s in the leaving—

poetry is in the dying, too.