Tessa, She Sat Wincing

She sat in the shabby green armchair
with a bowl of oatmeal.
Outside the window, the magnolias spoke
of spring. She had felt the prick,
welling of some emotion remote
and yet quick to rise.

What is its value, of being limpid,
that one can be so primal,
without which love is some
kind of sacrilege? Without whom?
With whom? Everything’s cheesy,
my better love.

Prompt: I thought, ha, what emotion to evince? For the Writers Digest Day 10 prompt is to write of some emotion. As if one can feel singularly happy, or sad, or angry, or whatever. Emotions are complex and mixed, aren’t they? In fact the mark of maturity seems to be a condition whereby both weight and lightness reside simultaneously in one’s state of being. Unlike, you know, a child, who is still innocent and simple. So in your poem, you are to reflect this ambiguous, ineffable quality of feeling. We are our feelings. Our feelings are us. Which feelings are fleeting? Which ones stay, linger within?

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