Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world.
Or as a finger piercing
a smoke-ring, casual, inquisitive,
But then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder
If it is one thing.
A large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.
Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of it furrows,
Or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.
Like yours, it could be anything,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms
Whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes
or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.
BY: BILLY COLLINS
YOU ARE READING
Poems
RandomI really love poems from different people back from the old days like Edgar Allan Poe or Robert Frost, and more others.
