I never write poetry. I’m not a poet. Prose comes easily to my chatterbox self. Poetry was always hard work — all that paring down words, crafting just the right phrase. But this morning, I felt poetry swirling in my mind, stirring in my soul. And so I wrote a poem. It’s been a long time since I’ve studied poetry, but I’m sure it doesn’t fit into a standard form or follow the rules. But I’m feeling brave. So I’m sharing it with you. Here goes . . .
An orange leaf drifts languidly against the bright blue sky
on this lazy day.
The threadbare quilt clings cozily around shivering shoulders
on this wooden porch.
Memories loll and float,
bobbing, bouncing, little nostalgic buoys
on this melancholy day.
The fullness and greenness turn,
transforming and fluttering into
a radiant, painfully beautiful wafting dance.
Ending, resting, wintering, waiting, remembering,
holding out hope