Brad’s cabin, ’13

Perhaps it was on that day I was very small,
I decided what I wanted to be.
There was a small satisfaction in that,
a place to sit and fit.
And we all need that.

I remember they were happy with me,
for who I wanted to be,
everyone was happy there was a place
for me, though it was hard
and we didn’t see that at first.

Now I walk to the lake and it’s become
something more, the lake:
and on the way, the moss grown
plump in the cracks, the sidewalk
soggy: the aspect of the trees and
sky this time of year. It makes me
glad for who I am, though hard
to reconcile, with what I do.

Categories: poetry

Tags: confessional poetry, identity, poem, poetry, the nature of art, William Pearse writer, writing