pulse

I came home last night, tired, and wrote an entry.  But then I read this poem on the blog, Writing Me Home, and felt a poem of my own begin to pulse.  Writing every day and reading the writing of others every day has created a community that is almost impossible to describe.  It is a community of hyper-awareness of all things going on in the world because these writers are in the world and of the world.  They are opening their hearts and pouring them out into words every day.  This community has sharpened my senses.  Joy, loss, delight, insight, anger, love.  I have read the words of those who write, and my life is touched by their lives.

Pulse

I listen.

I think.

I write I read I listen I think.

Words.

Pulse to heartbeat to thrumming in my ears,

it is all about different things, the same things,

human things.

Here in this place

different places

these places

are human spaces.

All the living and loving

and hurting

and loving.

In the same world

different worlds

a human world.

I think.

I think.

I write I read I listen I think.

Words.

The thrumming in my ears

is my heart and the pulse

find that community at Two Writing Teachers

of my humanity.

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