There is something quietly beautiful about a poem that refuses to separate the sacred from the ordinary.
A grocery list. A crossed t. A page left loose beside a bed. Nothing here asks to be extraordinary. And yet love has a way of altering not the objects themselves, but the attention we bring to them. Suddenly even punctuation carries a pulse.
I kept returning to "made foolish." Perhaps that is another name for love, not the loss of reason, but the surrender of the careful self we spend so much of our lives constructing.
By the end, the smallest page no longer feels small. It has become large enough to hold an entire way of seeing.
Your poem reminds us that the smallest page can sometimes carry the deepest affection. I especially loved the closing image of folding the heart into words. Thank you for sharing such quiet beauty.
This fits me. I’ve always had that dusk‑and‑embers interior. I ride for the wind, I write for the pulse, I remember for the sake of remembering. I’m not helplessly romantic ... I’m just wired for tenderness in a world that rewards armor.
Your poem is about someone who becomes foolish in the best way, made soft by ordinary things. That quiet, dangerous tenderness that happens when a grocery list, a quick‑crossed t, a loose page by the bed suddenly feel charged with intimacy.
I read it and recognized myself. Your closing lines fold the heart so gently it almost hurts. A poet sending the smallest page is never helpless ... it’s just the only honest way to speak when the moon won’t let you lie.
Oh Steve, thank you for this lovely comment! I’m so glad you resonated with my poem. You are absolutely correct. Love in the softest way, gentle, consistent, enduring. When those little everyday moments become the deepest intimacy.
I feel like this poem speaks of a very mature kind of love.
When we are young, we often imagine love as something grand, dramatic, or tragic -- a force that arrives like a storm. Yet many poets and artists spend their lives searching for extraordinary subjects only to discover that love lives elsewhere: in the margins of a page, in the shape of a familiar handwriting, in the quiet contemplation of endless waves.
Perhaps that is the mystery of it. We search for epics, only to find that the deepest affections have been waiting for us in the smallest gestures all along.
Thank you! This was one of those poems hastily scratched on a notepad during a break in between patients. One of those things that just pops out when you aren’t quite prepared for it. I loved it and feel a deep connection at that moment. Thank you Kelly!
As for the poem: sometimes these, the ones we just write intuitively, and which are just as they are meant to remain in their rough draft form, are our favorites, even our best.
Dorie, all the comments here say far more than I probably could have, but in reading them, I agree with each one. I live simply on purpose and always have, a choice made early on, and your poem reflects the reasoning of that choice. It was interesting to have it reflected back to me. It didn’t feel profound, just, well, simple, and right in a way, I’m coming to realize my life choices are sizing up to be. That you for this lovely reflection.
It’s all in the knitting. The smallest stitch is always the strongest.
Yes agreed! I love that!
There is something quietly beautiful about a poem that refuses to separate the sacred from the ordinary.
A grocery list. A crossed t. A page left loose beside a bed. Nothing here asks to be extraordinary. And yet love has a way of altering not the objects themselves, but the attention we bring to them. Suddenly even punctuation carries a pulse.
I kept returning to "made foolish." Perhaps that is another name for love, not the loss of reason, but the surrender of the careful self we spend so much of our lives constructing.
By the end, the smallest page no longer feels small. It has become large enough to hold an entire way of seeing.
Thank you for this quiet tenderness, Dorie.
Thank you Dipti. Thank you so much for this lovely comment. It’s these moments all collected in one heart that make love like this so wonderful.
Your poem reminds us that the smallest page can sometimes carry the deepest affection. I especially loved the closing image of folding the heart into words. Thank you for sharing such quiet beauty.
Dear Ms. Snow,
This fits me. I’ve always had that dusk‑and‑embers interior. I ride for the wind, I write for the pulse, I remember for the sake of remembering. I’m not helplessly romantic ... I’m just wired for tenderness in a world that rewards armor.
Your poem is about someone who becomes foolish in the best way, made soft by ordinary things. That quiet, dangerous tenderness that happens when a grocery list, a quick‑crossed t, a loose page by the bed suddenly feel charged with intimacy.
I read it and recognized myself. Your closing lines fold the heart so gently it almost hurts. A poet sending the smallest page is never helpless ... it’s just the only honest way to speak when the moon won’t let you lie.
Softness is the last brave thing we have.
Oh Steve, thank you for this lovely comment! I’m so glad you resonated with my poem. You are absolutely correct. Love in the softest way, gentle, consistent, enduring. When those little everyday moments become the deepest intimacy.
I feel like this poem speaks of a very mature kind of love.
When we are young, we often imagine love as something grand, dramatic, or tragic -- a force that arrives like a storm. Yet many poets and artists spend their lives searching for extraordinary subjects only to discover that love lives elsewhere: in the margins of a page, in the shape of a familiar handwriting, in the quiet contemplation of endless waves.
Perhaps that is the mystery of it. We search for epics, only to find that the deepest affections have been waiting for us in the smallest gestures all along.
Yes absolutely!
Dorie, this is absolutely beautiful! I am so impressed and inspired. I am very glad I read you exactly when I did.
Thank you! This was one of those poems hastily scratched on a notepad during a break in between patients. One of those things that just pops out when you aren’t quite prepared for it. I loved it and feel a deep connection at that moment. Thank you Kelly!
Hi Dorie!
I’ve been thinking about you a lot.
As for the poem: sometimes these, the ones we just write intuitively, and which are just as they are meant to remain in their rough draft form, are our favorites, even our best.
This truly is a wonderful poem!
How darling!
I really loved how you framed this.
The grocery lists as love notes were super cute. Quite masterful Dorie
Thank you Miles! Gotta find romance somewhere as we get older lol
Yes it’s amazing how we require it but rarely afford the opportunity to seek it out. Must have the arrows of Cupid sharpened 😁😁😁
Dorie, all the comments here say far more than I probably could have, but in reading them, I agree with each one. I live simply on purpose and always have, a choice made early on, and your poem reflects the reasoning of that choice. It was interesting to have it reflected back to me. It didn’t feel profound, just, well, simple, and right in a way, I’m coming to realize my life choices are sizing up to be. That you for this lovely reflection.
Thank you for your lovely comment! I appreciate you very much for reading. I’m happy it resonated with you!
Lovely words Dorie. Sometimes what are apparently small moments leave a lasting impact and impression.
I think you are correct