Glenda Kotchish

Perfect perception

waits

for the space

of wanting

to see, 

of wanting to understand.


(C) Glenda Kotchish, September 3, 2023

Tulips lean over the vase edge
Color faded, wilting
on the hearth

At the base lies the dog
sleeping
curled into a ball
rays of sun warming him—
A slight jerk, perhaps a dream

The sound of dripping from 
the clogged gutter
outside the window

The clock on the brick wall ticks away
out of rhythm with the drain pipe’s dripping—
no rhythm at all 
this collaboration

Distressing like the rapping 
of young people’s music
makes me long for Bach

I rise
find the blue-tooth speaker
the cell phone,
amazon music 
press buttons
slide screens

Bach 
centuries old
joins in

(C) Glenda Kotchish 2022

The birds
in the bleak mid-winter, before dawn
tucked in the trees,
quiet, waiting, sleeping.

The deer
somewhere in the the woods
grazing in familiar places, 
perhaps they will come to my door 
for corn.

Later, I will put hot water
in the bird bath to melt the ice.

Later.

(C) Glenda Kotchish January 2022