Shapiro's Child

This morning, reading Alex's latest thoughts, looking at her latest photo, listening to the wonderful music that accompanies it, I looked at her prose, and as is my custom, I saw the poem hidden within it. Her thoughts, my thoughts, follow:

Still Reflecting, Still Inherent, Still Ready

In the stillness,
arms folded
midst the silence,
yet never quiet,
the wind has lips
and it whispers
my name,
and yours;
can you hear it?

The brave sun appeared
midday
to eradicate
the mist rolling in
off the restless sea,
and hung out
for me,
bright yet cold,
on this fruitful
winter’s day.

I stood transfixed
and bundled,
taking in
salt air and wet wood,
and breathing out
doubt;
feeling that calm
that always comes
from watching
the pale radiance
of a January day
dip below the edge
of my island.

Yes, now
I can smile
into the pastels
of twilight
because I feel
movement
within my core,
within my chest,
wanting recognition;
music
whose notes demand
birth, demand
respect, and
identity;
but never fear
natal notes
for I am
your mother.

Glance at the photo
now, and gather to you
the scene here
an hour ago
at sunset.

My brain and spirit
are infused
with the positive sonic
chaos
of a new piece
nearing
the double bar;
(another double malt,
puhleeze?).

How good
to be able to sit
quietly
at this place
and collect…
no, herd, actually
my thoughts.

Glenn Buttkus for and by Alex Shapiro

A new day.
A new week.
Creativity is loose,
and the music is afoot.

Postscript: I sort of promised that this poem, her thoughts and mine would reside on her blog alone, there quietly on NOTES FROM THE KELP. But as the morning moved along, the words kept dogging me, the poem kept nudging me, and so I became an Indian Poet, and I took it back, without permission, and placed it out here too. The poem wanted to make new friends. Who am I to deny poetry its due?

Glenn