[The] Feel of the Desert

I was wading though some books and folder. It was time to clean house, and it is always the small stuff that slows you down. As with most clean-up jobs, distraction is a cause for lost time. I was distracted by my WR 115 assignment book. I had written a poem that was labled under genre change and free-writing. I am not sure what that means, but I think we were trying to add some freedom in what had been a tightly structured class. Anyway, here is the poem. It wasn’t graded, but I had included it with another story I had written about my time in the high desert of Oregon.

I can see morning happing so quickly that

The sun seems to pop out of the far horizon

The cold bite of the morning until the sun

actually recovers enough to produce heat

I remember my mother starting the wood stove.

I, putting my head a little farther under the covers

until the heat starts building from the cold metal

I hear the clang of the Iron covers of the stove being

moved about as she feeds more wood into the stove.

I remember the cold.

After reading it I realized that I still had the same image as when I first wrote the poem. The problem was, besides not being very good, I didn’t give a very good description of the image I was seeing. So of course I wasted some more time and re-wrote it. Let’s just call this a work in the making.

The desert mornings start so quickly that

the sun seems to pop out of the far dark horizon.

I feel the cold bite of the morning until

the sun recovers enough, from the night, to produce heat.

I remember my mother starting the wood stove.

I remember hiding my head a little further under the covers,

to fake sleep and listen.

The sounds of the heat as it starts to build

from the cold metal that now holds fire.

In the distance of my dreams I hear the clang

of the Iron covers my mother holds in her hands,

as she feeds more wood into the stove.

I remember the cold,

and the warmth of my mother.

I think it is better, but the image and the sound of the cast iron round covers on the old wood burning kitchen stove could use some work. For me, poetry was never easy nor good.

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