Experimental

If I were going to write something here, something meaningful, something deep, what would I say? Would I look from my window at the rain-splattered yard and notice the curious lift of my dog's head? Her fawn hair is slicked in wet stripes against her cheeks, and she twists her muzzle here and there, standing calm, scenting the wind to see where she will go next.

I think my yard matters. It matters to me. But do you care about my yard and the view from my window? How do I go about transporting the content of my small space into yours? How do the words that I spill across your screen make any difference to your dog, in your house, with your own pattern of sun and wind, or rain and snow gathering outside your own front door?

Why am I writing so predominantly in questions? Did you miss my writing over the weekend? If my writing here stops, will you wonder where I went? Or will you merely move on to reading the next blog on your list before you return to your workaday world of fixing meals and paying bills?

I like writing in the second person. But why? I talk to you, but I don't know you really. Yet the second person suggests that I do, that somehow we are conversing, that my words are opening a path between us that you did not realize existed until this moment of reading them.

Do you see what I am saying?

This is writing that wants to be a poem. This is writing that wants to say something. Shadow moth memories of other poems I have read circle through my mind, brushing their luminescent wings among my thoughts with a whisper I can almost hear. This is what you will come back to, says Margaret Atwood. This is where you begin. This is the way the world ends, TS Eliot wrote, but that's not what I'm saying in the slightest, merely copying his rhythm that my thoughts suggest to me.