piercing a bubble of oblivion
a squeaky chair informs me
I am still alive
snapping, twitching, poping
(a small vocabulary indeed)
yet, implying as much as
all the earth's magnificent poetry
something I had almost forgotten
now, something I will never forget
I had to double-check to make
I had to double-check to make sure that *oblivian* is not a word; so it must be oblivion, eh?
Sometimes one loses oneself and the incidentals of life, bring us back into the moment. I love when that happens. I love when a poem emerges from that incident...like yours.
!
~A
Hi Anna
thank you again for your supportive comments/thoughts.
sincerely