On The Way Out The Door

On The Way Out The Door

A moment of forgetfulness,

you, waiting at the bottom of the steps,

and I, caught with the door still open,

teetering on the edge of remembrance;

we stop and stare without looking.

The birds have stopped singing

because the notes have flown away.

The cars have parked on the road

because there’s nowhere to go.

Even the sun blinks behind a cloud.

We lose ourselves in our reflection.

We feel the air pause

and brush us only lightly with a thought,

you, and I, and a leaf falling through

the momentary stupor of the world.

When all begins again, it does so suddenly:

a breeze without a reason, chirping, honking.

I return inside for something while you notice children

playing down the street. They do not yet see

what it is to be a statue.

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This is a poem I wrote last night after reading "A Moment of Happiness" by Rumi, except I read it from a poster that, for some reason, cut it off at the image "what it is to be a thin crescent moon." I thought that was an interesting ending to a poem and thought I would write off of that poem. It turns out that Rumi's poem goes on longer, but oh well.

This poem is meant to capture that moment of forgetfulness when, because you feel like you've forgotten something, everything seems to stop for a moment until you remember. If you have suggestions, please let me know.