Tiny Unfolding Beginnings

-

 Daily Poem Practice

An excerpt from Wild Writing with McKenzie Zajonc— Jump off line from Hannah Rosenberg’s If May Was Your Friend

~

The tiny unfolding beginnings

of right here, right now are so small

I can barely make them out. Perhaps

I’ve begun to indulge in what’s here. Perhaps

I’ve begun to open a new something. But

I am so afraid of it closing, I don’t dare say more. But

it’s here, this tiny unfolding beginning. A note

with it’s sweetly pressed edges. A package

well wrapped in paper so pretty you don’t want to tear.

Unfolding beginnings. The promise of small revelations

as long as you keep your gentle courage, gingerly stay willing

to open one flap, and then the next, to steady yourself to accept

whatever you find inside. 

Let's Connect on Instagram

Coffee Button

Send Sarah Emma Ruth $5 for coffee via Venmo

Popular Posts from this Blog

When You Don’t Go Online

-
  What You Get When You Don’t Go Online Time moves slower. Sun inches across each pane. You’ll notice the shadows  changing. You’ll notice wind, and rain. When you don’t go online The only “people” can be sensed sometimes smelt, or noticeably in the back of your mind, fenced. When you don’t go online There are no numbers hovering over your head. No one barges in telling you whether folks are living or dead.  In general, it’s just a lot more grass, and stone, and sea When you don’t go online What a great big world you see.
to the poem »

Lazy Poem

-
  Lazy Poem Today I went to a planning meeting a poetry chat a critique circle a bunch of little stops  in between. They all said the same thing: The only way to live life is through action.  Action. Unavoidable,  whether you try hard or not.
to the poem »

Our House

-
Our House (Draft 2. Final draft on substack ) A house starts as four lines, a red, crayon, box shape with my five-year-old hand's signature stroke. Three decades later, my eldest daughter would switch to green to draw her triangle top. Her younger brother will add twin teal smaller squares, will divide them into fourths.  My mother's eyes should recognize how these windows represent the promise  of known depth, but they don't. The only thing I know? My youngest, a daughter, will not be satisfied. Not until, passing that five-year-old-threshold, she scrawls pink and purple flowerbeds on the right side, on the left. In time, for all of us, the shapes move, the colors layer. Our crayon melts into something we, a kaleidscopic household, can't quite control. Something neither my nose nor their father's can quite smell. Sure, whether here or there, time will be measured in dollars and cents.  Perhaps, like on our broken marriage license, each name on the le...
to the poem »

Self Compassion Poem

-
  Self Compassion Poem I saw that  you, bounding over heart full of joy,  head swirling with hope, synchronicities and baby- steps drooling down your chin like life’s ever melting popsicle. That hurt, when she turned away from you. That hurt, when she couldn’t meet you there. That hurt, when she took your promise and upped the anti with her doubt by saying “well, it’s your journey, and one day reality is gonna hit you like a slap in the face.” 
to the poem »