Excuse me, dishes, but I’m talking to the world.
I would take you for a spin, vacuum, but I’m booked to take a lovely trek over Scottish hills and to carefully trimmed gardens.
I have architecture to examine in Colorado and Cologne, Singapore and Seoul.
I would dust if it were not for the call to email off-page with my new blogger pen pal.
Rugs, beating you could consume my time if it were not for the beating heart of the world at my fingertips, waiting to be heard, waiting to be seen.
Excuse me, cookbook, but I’m talking to the world.
I would search out a culinary delight, but I’m busy examining the mouth-watering recipes from Virginia and the organic confections from who knows where, maybe somewhere in Minnesota, I think.
I’m going native with scenes from East Asia and East Europe and East LA. I’m being touched—even inspired—by a farmer’s wife in Ontario, an adventurer in New England, a priest, a mother, a teen, and a knitter in some part of the world that could be right next door but I’m not really sure. Weird if I could peek out my side window to see you tapping on your computer–tapping to me.
In my small room in my suburban home,
the smallness of my life,
page by page, photograph by photograph,
song by poem by joke by and by and by
reaches out to a big wide world.
My smallness reaches out to the bigness, and I am talking to the world.
Excuse me, laundry . . .