The thing about a poem is,
it has to go somewhere even
if it doesn’t feel that way. Description
isn’t enough. I mean, I can tell you
the window with the rickety blind
is turning blue and bluer
this December afternoon.
I can tell you it’s still early
even if it doesn’t feel that way.
There are seven blueberries
in a bowl the exact color of loss,
of forty-five minutes from now
the exact color of the end of this poem.
I’ve rearranged them. Twice. That’s
how hard it is to sit here, sometimes.
It’s not enough. A poem is a vehicle.
It moves us down the road.
Something shifts by the end—
for you or me—or what’s it worth?
Recently I’ve been toying
with the notion it’s that way
with people too. I mean, listen,
what if we’re all just vehicles,
conduits for each other’s growth?
What if terrible bosses, ex-lovers,
lost friends, what if it was never
anything personal, just, we needed
to learn some lesson, gain some
bit of wisdom about something,
and there they were, ready for the role?
Even if—at the time or ever—it doesn’t
feel that way, I mean. Even if, as it turns out,
the berries never had anything to do with it,
and it was all about something else anyway.

Sarah Sadie is a poet and writer who has lived in Wisconsin for nearly twenty years. With Wendy Vardaman, she published Verse Wisconsin from 2009-2014. Her own poetry, books and writings have been widely published and awarded, but not for a while. She currently resides in Portage and shares reflections, musings and invitations at An Inviting Space.