I intend these images to be as if one is looking through a window. By choosing a pot, some plant material, and finagling the backdrop I find a way into seeing a little more cleanly. The process helps me discover a touch of beauty. When the sky gets dark, I have a record of the day, the light, the moment.
Every Poem
has a double-hung window inside it,
the kind that allows you to let in
a little more air when you feel as if you
can’t breathe. Sometimes, seeing through it
helps you find a new way to frame the world.
Sometimes it makes it easier
to feel as if there’s distance
between you and what the poem says,
as if you’re on the outside looking in
instead of the other way around.
Though when it’s dark, you can’t help
but see your own reflection.
When a poem makes you uncomfortable,
its window opens wide enough to let you
climb out, but not without things
getting a little awkward. I mean,
you are climbing out the window
instead of using the poem’s back door.
But mostly, the window lets the light change
so every time you re-enter the poem,
it feels different—familiar, but new;
and you wander around inside the lines
and wonder, did the poem change?
Or did you?
–Rosemerry Whatola Trommer, November 30, 2024