Just returned from a monthly Narrative Medicine reading hour at work. We read the following poem, and then wrote for a bit to the prompt: “What is your bird?”
I interpreted the bird in the poem, as the little things in life that can pull you away from all that binds you. A little glimpse outside, a breath of clarity, a tiny piece of peace, perhaps. I wrote:
The simple task of a pot of coffee
Riding the (questionable?) elevator down for
the paper on the heater
in the lobby
A new kind of flower at the corner in the cold
Sun on the river on a run,
Maybe a real bird – not a pigeon?
Converstaions – real or lettered – coveted ones,
Not missing the train, making it in
perfect time, actually
Someone interested in me – genuinely, altruistically?
A cold swim completed.
It was nice to collaborate with others in a thoughtful, non-urgent, therapeutic way.