A Lighter Shade of Grey

This morning I sat in a park and spaced out while reading a book of poems. In Silicon Valley, the sun shines bright even in January. The park bench was hard, and nearby was a fountain where children were collecting pennies. I thought about how that might reverse their luck. I felt isolated and literary.

In the winter, the light in my brain narrows to a pin point. If my internal monologue was overheard by someone else, it would be one word sentences that relate only to what needs to be done: groceries. cleaning. working. These words would be the color grey, and would drop off at the end of each syllable, like plate glass meeting cement.

It is a lonely piece of sunshine that washes you out instead of lighting you up. In my mind is a pale light that illuminates what I would rather have fade away.

While I sat reading my book of poems, two young men walked by and looked over at me. One said to the other, “She’s reading a really good book of poems.”

I felt isolated and literary.

Poets often write about how a good poem affects the reader. What we can take away from it. I want to touch the cosmos, and not even just see my name in print. I want to touch my poems in their physical form. Perhaps that’s how they are meant to exist.

In my morning book of poems, I read things I want to remember in moments when I am alone. And that, to me, is the foundation of poetry.

It is the moment we touch the sun, so the sun may in turn touch us.