Does one ever run out of things to write about?
There are not so many things in my life
There are small things
The quiet of the lake when I go by myself
There are the loud car rides with my sister when we sing
There are the evenings when I sit on our bed and listen to his music
There are all the smiley faces I draw in the margins
There is the library, my bangs blowing in my face, that cloud,
These boots, and the hum of my tires on the road before dusk
There is this skin spread like butter over this muscle and bones
There are the back rubs and hot and cold showers and, always, there are the dishes
It is a small thing, this life
It is a symphony of significance
Mostly not like a symphony at all
I sometimes wonder if I will–
Run out of things to write about
If you will get bored of me
And my small things
If so, I do not mind
I have these arms around me
This skin and bones for now
To soak up the sun
These hands for working
And resting and sowing
Love like a garden
I have the dirt and the sky and the sun
All around me
I have a laughter all my own and my painted chipped nails
and I do not mind at all
I have someone(s) who will still love me
Without my poetry
And isn't that a kind of poetry
All on it's own?
— olivia gwyn
