Poems About Hidden Things
Poetry is a bit like acting (of which I'm mourning the loss): they're each an indirect way to share the depths of the soul. They are both art forms that feel extremely personal to the giver, but which are vague enough to allow for the safety of mystery. In acting and in poetry, you get me without totally getting me. With that said, here are the depths of my soul disguised in two poems written this month. Maybe they'll reach across the divide and connect to some deeply personal part of you that is a mystery to me. 2.10.22 New things growing silently, invisibly, hidden away in me, even from my own view. The Maker, making new things, weaving true things, fresh as dew upon the grass hiding this grave, the grave of the rotting, sparkly old me that he's buried mercifully. Taking small steps, taking new steps, knowing less, leaning ...
