and for hours we drive through clumps
of mountains called ranges, clumps
of cars we call traffic, clumps of homes
we call towns. We speak in clumps
called subjects as we laugh in clumps
called laughter tokens. And sometimes
we’re silent in a flexible clump called silence.
I think of clumps of grief and clumps of joy,
clumps of celebration and clumps of time
when I forgot to wonder what comes next.
How many clumps does it take to screw
in a lightbulb? How many clumps make a day?
Something so satisfying about the clump.
Humble as dirt on the roots of a tree. Natural
as tufts of wheatgrass in the field.
Creative as a clump of atoms that, when infused
with heat from the sun, become a petunia.
Clumps of words make a sentence. Clumps
of notes create song. Clumps of time
build a friendship. And what is peace
but a clump of moments when we choose
not to fight? What is age but a clump
of memories? What is love but a clump
of surrenders? What is now but a chance
to be alive in this wondrous clump we call our life?
for Art Goodtimes
I am so enamored with your repeated use of “clump” that I have to go back, reread a few times, absorb the whole poem. Thank you for lifting up for our gaze this overlooked pedestrian word.
so many clumps!!! clump! clump!
“clumps of…. gives me a needed perspective!!
right!? such a perspective shifter, and almost nothing it doesn’t apply to!
Thank-you for this! I also think of a horse clumping along, lol…maybe that’s me…
Rosemerry, I treasure these words, your wisdom! A great clump! (poem)!
Thank you, Mariette! I can imagine the horse clumping his way into it, too!