running out

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